


The Tagalong

by Lenny9987



Series: Lenny's Imagine Claire and Jamie Prompts [5]
Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fergus through the stones, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6473926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenny9987/pseuds/Lenny9987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: What if Fergus had gone through the Stones after Culloden accidentally or on purpose and found Claire and Bree?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because this fic is written for the Imagine Claire and Jamie blog over on Tumblr, it won't be updated as frequently as some of my other multi-chapter fics.

Milord had entrusted Fergus with an important document and instructed him to get it safely to Lallybroch. And Fergus hated the thought of disappointing Milord. But there was something going on—he could see it in Milord’s eyes, in the way he looked at Milady—and he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew what it was, why he looked so scared and determined. It couldn’t just be the approaching battle though anyone with eyes could see it didn’t look to go in the Scots’ favor. Milord had bid him to ride Donas—a treat and a responsibility meant to ensure he’d do as he’d been instructed—as though either would be more compelling than Milord simply making a request, as though either would be more compelling than his own need to see that Milord and Milady were all right.

He rode Donas a ways towards Lallybroch, glancing back to be sure they weren’t watching. Then he’d stopped and let Donas graze for a bit, waiting and calculating. He couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what might happen to them in his absence. They were the first people he’d ever known to care for him—to care _about_ him—who didn’t want anything from him. Sure, he’d acted as a servant, especially in Paris when Milord had need of his light fingers, but in the almost two years since finding his way into Milord’s employ, he’d felt how completely things had shifted and understood that if they asked him to carry out simple chores or carry messages, it was because he longed for that sense of responsibility, that the formality was easier to admit to than what lay beneath. It pained him to have to disobey Milord’s wishes but it would pain him more to leave them behind when he sensed something worse was coming for them.

When he felt he’d waited long enough—that he could slip back safely and find them without being noticed—he turned back for the camp. By the time he reached the point where he’d left them, they were long gone and he couldn’t find anyone who had seen more than the vague direction they had gone—but everyone seemed certain they had left the camp on some errand or other.

Fergus couldn’t bear to abandon Donas, nor was it feasible for him to take the beast with him (he was far too noticeable); there was also the matter of the paperwork Milord needed safely sent to Lallybroch—though he might disobey Milord’s instructions as regarded himself, Fergus would still see the task carried out.

Luckily, there was another man whom he recognized as someone Milord had spoken to when they’d first arrived. He brought the horse over, relieved when Donas and the man appeared to recognize one another.

“Do you know the way to Broch Tuarach?” he inquired, struggling to place the guttural noises where they belonged in his pronunciation. “Milord has a message the he needs carried to his family there and seeks someone to take it for him. As you see, he can provide a horse for this messenger. Would you be able to do this or can you please point me in the direction of someone who is able?”

The man was older and stooped. He glanced Fergus over, his mouth twisting one way and then the other as he considered the lad and his request.

“Aye, I ken how te get a message to Lallybroch,” he assured Fergus, his eyes narrow. “I dinna ken what ye’re about lad. Seems to me ye’re Jamie’s errand boy and he’d be best te send ye yersel’ if he wanted it done right.”

Fergus flushed and the man softened, presumably because he thought Fergus was afraid of taking Donas so far on his own. He grabbed the sealed pages from Fergus and tucked them into what was left of his coat then reached for the horse’s reins. “On wi’ ye then. Tell his lairdship that Ol’ Alec will see his message reaches his kin safe.”

Without Donas’ bulk, Fergus was able to slip through the encampment with ease but he would have a difficult time of catching up to Milord and Milady on foot—there was no way to escape the necessity of that though. And once he set out in the general direction they’d last been seen heading, it proved easier than he’d expected to pick up their trail as the ground was soft and aside from the larger movements of the armies themselves, there were few who had traveled in the direction they had. Fergus wasn’t much of a tracker outside of overcrowded Paris, but even he could follow the hoof prints of the horse that carried both Milord and Milady away from Culloden.

The sun was sinking fast and he thought he’d need to find an out of the way place to sleep—and either go hungry or scrounge about for some nuts or berries that might quiet the rumbling of his stomach though he doubted anything he managed would succeed in silencing it altogether. Then he spotted the small cottage and the horse tied up outside. He dropped to the ground and lay flat until he was sure that Milord and Milady must be inside where they couldn’t see him.

He approached from the side opposite the horse so the beast wouldn’t get restless and alert them—whatever was going on, he knew Milord was always alert to such things. It was a cool night but the stones of the fireplace had warmed in the sun during the day and retained a bit of residual heat—or maybe they’d lit a fire inside and that was what kept him warm. He couldn’t be sure and as he curled up and drifted off to sleep, he didn’t care—he only cared that he was near Milord and Milady where he belonged.

The rumblings of his empty stomach roused him before dawn. He could smell something cooking but it was a ways off—not inside the cabin. He sat upright and crawled around the perimeter, keeping low and out of sight. The ground rose gradually nearby towards a hill but if he went too far up he might be too exposed. He clung to the shadows of the trees along the way and found one with branches low enough for him to scramble up and into their cloud cover.

Smoke in the distance caught his eye. Between the wisps of grey he saw a flash of red. English solders. They were moving, dousing their fire and preparing to move. They were too far away to see their actions clearly but suddenly there was a cluster of them and several broke off moving towards the cabin—one of them had spotted Milord’s horse. Fergus scrambled down from the tree as best he could, praying he could reach the cabin and warn Milord and Milady before the soldiers reached them—though there was little that advanced warning could do as far as helping them. There were too many soldiers and nowhere for them to go. Fergus had made it to the bottom of the tree when he spotted Milady at the back of the cabin as Milord screamed to her to run, heading out to the other side of the building himself to confront the soldiers.

Torn between the two, Fergus spotted one of the soldiers break away from the group and chase after Milady as she ran up the hill. Milord would want Milady protected above all things. Taking the small blade he had tucked away in his boot, Fergus scrambled up the hillside after Milady.

The soldier who was chasing her was close but Fergus was faster. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his knife and instead dropped it as he tackled the man around his legs. Milady hadn’t noticed as Fergus and the soldier rolled on the ground, the soldier’s knee catching Fergus in the jaw. He bit his lip and tongue hard, tasting blood. The soldier didn’t seem to know what had got him and was flailing his legs to free himself without losing hold of his musket. Fergus dodged the butt of the musket, rolling away from the soldier who was still searching for the source of his trouble.

Fergus spotted rocks up ahead and moved to duck behind them. If he could taunt the soldier and distract him, he could buy Milady some time to run away. As he scanned the circle of stones, however, Milady was nowhere to be found. He had to know where she was so he could lead the soldier in another direction.

Darting across the circle to the largest, cracked stone, he moved to brace himself against it and felt a deep shuddering in his bones. He couldn’t remove his hands as the vibrations rattled through him, the teeth in his jaw chattering as he screamed in pain and terror.

He felt himself hit the ground but didn’t remember falling—only screaming. He was quiet now as the shaking gradually eased and the pounding in his head ebbed.

His first thought was that the soldier must have shot him—it was the only explanation for the pain that radiated through his middle and the echoing of the shot must have been the source of the ringing in his ears.

“Fergus?!” he heard Milady exclaim before coming to crouch over him—that more than anything settled him on the conclusion that he’d been shot.

“You must tell Milord I am sorry to have disobeyed,” Fergus begged of her as she ran her hands over him, searching for the bullet wound. “I did find another to take Donas and the message to Lallybroch. I did not disregard him entirely—only, I could not leave you with Milord acting as strangely as he was.”

Milady was crying for him, pulling him up so she could cradle him against her as he died. She trembled and sobbed and kept calling for Jamie, clinging tightly to Fergus who was slowly beginning to realize that the pain was fading but his senses were returning, that the fuzziness and confusion in his head was clearing—that he _wasn’t,_ in fact, dying.

Milady’s tears eventually calmed and she loosened her grip on Fergus, simply sitting unmoving and inspiring a whole new fear in Fergus. Perhaps the soldier had thought—as Fergus had—that he’d successfully shot and killed him. How long would it be before the soldiers moved on? Perhaps they already had. He and Milady should move on to the cabin and wait there for Milord to return.

“Milady, please. We must move before they return. Milord will come looking for you soon,” he implored, rising and attempting to pull her to her feet.

“He’s not coming, Fergus. He’s not here. We’re… not there… anymore,” she murmured.

He furrowed his brow in confusion but his stomach grumbled with renewed hunger before he could ask what she meant.

The sound of the boy’s hunger caused Claire to jerk to attention, enabled her to put aside her own pain—or rather, the lethargic numbness that spread out from her chest—and gave her something external to focus on.

“You’re hungry,” she remarked, pushing up from her knees and looking around, glaring at the cracked stone. “The road is near here. We can follow it until we find someone and can check exactly when we are. You’re not hurt are you? I don’t think you broke anything coming through.”

“My head it is ache, Milady,” he said, rubbing at the base of his skull where the throbbing had been centralized.

“Please… you mustn’t call me that anymore,” she begged him as she took the first tentative steps out of the stone circle and towards the downward slope of the hill. “Claire… you must call me Claire or… mother or something of that nature.”

“Mother Claire,” he said quietly, silently thrilling to the sound of it. “Where will we go? Why would Milord not come for us?”

He had been following her but stopped abruptly.

“Mila—Mother Claire… what is that?”

He had never seen stone so dark or flat or spread so carefully before. It stretched into the distance to either side of them as they approached the bottom of the hill, disappearing into the horizon.

“It’s a road,” she assured him. “We must be in at least the twentieth century.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fergus panicked and clung to Claire when the first car came round a bend in the road and he remained effectively glued to her side for the next two days. The driver had room in the back for the pair of them and kept looking at Claire in the rearview mirror as she kept an arm wrapped around Fergus’ shoulders, calming him and explaining the situation as best she could in French. His youth proved an asset as far as his ability to believe about the stones somehow being a pathway through time and he began questioning her about the intervening two hundred years he had missed. Luckily, their good Samaritan driver had no French.

By the time they reached the hospital, Fergus had exhausted himself and passed out in the back seat with his head resting in Claire’s lap, leaving her to deal with the doctors and authorities. She refused to let them examine Fergus until the boy woke and demanded they let her be present in the room to keep him calm and explain what was happening.

“He’s never had this kind of physical exam before. He’ll need vaccinations and inoculations as well,” she tried to inform the doctors and nurses as they pushed to let them examine her.

“Are ye the boy’s mother?” one doctor eyed her judgmentally.

“Adoptive mother of sorts, yes,” she told them. “He’s been in my care for about a year.”

“Is he an orphan from the war? Do ye have the papers for his transfer from France to Britain?” the doctor asked while a nurse looked through the pile of clothes containing Claire’s bodice, stays, and over skirts. The nurse examined each article delicately, rolling her eyes at the doctor’s absurd question—the fact that there was something odd about the woman and the boy was obvious simply from their clothing.

“There is no paperwork, no. He has learned a bit of English but hasn’t had any formal schooling.”

“You must let us examine you first then, Mrs. Randall—”

“Please,” she interrupted abruptly, bristling at the name before stopping herself, taking a deep breath, and continuing in a gentler tone, “Claire. Please… call me Claire.” She had given the doctors her name and requested that someone contact Mrs. Graham or the Reverend Wakefield. She knew someone would end up calling Frank but couldn’t bear to think about him right now; she could hardly bear to think of Jamie either, so instead she kept her attention and thoughts entirely on Fergus.

“Claire then,” the doctor conceded. “And the boy?”

“He is called Fergus.”

“Not very French,” the doctor chuckled.

“He prefers it to the name he had in France; he was… ill-used there. He’s had a bit of a fresh start since… since he’s come into my care,” Claire rambled as she finally submitted to a physical examination.

When it was over, they wouldn’t let her sleep in a chair at Fergus’ bedside so she insisted they put them in a room together that she might be there if and when he needed her in the night. If he had not been so exhausted, he likely would have been as restless as she was. All of the noises of the twentieth century that she’d learned to do without had replaced the background noise of the eighteenth century, leaving her disquieted. She dozed but starting frequently as nurses with carts passed the room, orderlies pushing other patients, visitors passing through on their way to visit loved ones. They wouldn’t admit Mrs. Graham when she arrived but the nurses gave Claire the change of clothes the woman had brought for her.

Eventually the nurses came to Claire informing her that her husband had been contacted and would be arriving in a few hours. She requested someone sit with Fergus while she was allowed to bathe and dress.

Fergus woke as she returned to the room.

“Mother Claire,” he said quietly, shrinking from the nurse and turning his frightened smile to Claire.

“It’s all right Fergus,” Claire soothed, taking the nurse’s place at his bedside. She switched to French, which several on the staff understood but not with the fluency—or eighteenth century idioms—that she and Fergus used. “We’re in a hospital and the doctors are going to give you a physical exam, a bath, some new clothes, and something to eat. I won’t leave your side, I promise. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Fergus submitted reluctantly to the doctors’ examination and eyed them with suspicion as they declared him to be in good physical health. Claire held his hand and walked him through the first series of injections that the doctors administered. The bath he loved, sitting in the hot water until his skin glowed pink and his fingertips had wrinkled like raisins—twice he pressed Claire to turn the hot water tap back on to reinvigorate the temperature of his bath. He found the food a bit odd and tasteless but compared to what they’d managed to get during those last weeks of the Rising campaign it was all wonderfully welcome. They were unable to coble together a decent suit of clothes for the boy and he clung to those he came in until Claire convinced the medical staff to let him keep and wear his shirt.

“What are _you_ wearing mil—Mother Claire?” Fergus corrected himself when they were alone and he was tucked into bed once more.

She looked down at the sweater vest she wore overtop a loose white blouse—the cuffs were loose around the wrists where she too had lost weight in those last weeks, but as Jamie had remarked before they parted, her breasts had already begun to fill out as they had in the early stages of her pregnancy with Faith. She had yet to tell Fergus though she had mentioned it briefly to the physician during her exam, evading further discussion of the subject until the man had taken her hint and dropped the matter. The skirt she wore fell to the middle of her calf and she was surprised by how exposed she felt with so much of her stocking-clad legs showing.

“These are the clothes people wear in this time,” she told Fergus sitting on the edge of his bed and reaching to turn off the lamp. When he first woke up she had waited to alert the nurses until he’d worked through a cursory exploration of the room and its modern technologies including switching the lights on and off several times and tuning the radio, grimacing at the music it emitted as he shook his head.

Fergus shrugged and settled down in the bed. “Where will we go, Mother Claire? What will we do without Milord?”

Claire swallowed hard and blinked back tears, fingering the silver ring on her right hand before answering, “I don’t know yet, Fergus. But we’ll stick together, you and I. That I promise you.”

Reassured, the boy drifted back to sleep. When he was safely out, Claire rose from the bed and crossed to the window and watched with an eye to the front doors below. The light of day faded—it really hadn’t been a full twenty-four hours yet since she had parted from Jamie and yet it had also been two hundred years. At the moment, it felt more like two hundred years than fourteen or fifteen hours. A car pulled up in front of the hospital and a man emerged. From the way he moved she knew it must be Frank and her breath caught in her chest. She glanced back at Fergus still asleep on the bed before heading for the door.

Their room was right across from the floor’s main desk so the nurse looked up as soon as Claire stepped out into the hallway.

“Mrs. Randall,” the young woman exclaimed getting up from her chair and moving around the desk to reach for Claire as though she needed help simply standing—although, the prospect of seeing and speaking to Frank again _did_ have her feeling a little wobbly. “Is there something I can do to help ye, ma’am?”

“I uh… I believe my… my husband,” she stumbled over using the word to refer to Frank, “I believe he’s just arrived downstairs and… I don’t want him to disturb Fergus—he’s just gone to sleep.”

“I’ve no had word from downstairs yet, ma’am, but if Mr. Randall is come to see ye there’s an empty room just over this way where ye can have a bit of privacy between ye,” the nurse reassured her and led her across to a small waiting area with chairs. She urged Claire to sit. “Let me fetch ye some tea, then.”

Claire nodded and the young woman disappeared into a room behind the main desk where Claire heard her fumbling around with a kettle and a hot plate. She emerged from the room only for a moment when the phone rang. Her eyes met Claire’s from where she sat, nodding to her and confirming Claire’s suspicions. Claire promptly began fidgeting with Jamie’s silver ring again, twirling it around on her finger nervously as she waited.

Frank didn’t notice Claire as he bounded up the stairs and strode towards the nurse at the desk.

“I’m here to see my wife,” he said loudly. “Claire Randall, where is she?”

A doctor passing through the hallway overheard and approached even as the nurse explained that Claire was waiting for him.

“Mr. Randall,” the doctor interrupted. “I’m Dr. Grant, your wife’s physician since she came to us early this morning.”

“How is she? I must see her,” Frank demanded, both the men ignoring the nurse who looked past them to where Claire sat waiting.

Claire wanted to smile at the younger woman, to show she understood—and she _did_ —but seeing Frank again she was struck anew by his resemblance to Black Jack and her hands clenched the arms of the chair in which she sat. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths, reminding herself that Frank wasn’t Black Jack—wasn’t even the direct descendant he believed himself to be. She forced the images of Mary Hawkins and Alex Randall to her mind—both of them so sweet and caring and physically fragile but strong beneath it all. Thinking of them, she was able to loosen her grip on the chair and push herself up.

“Ah, Mrs. Randall. What are ye doing out of yer room?” the doctor scolded lightly. “Ye should be resting in bed right now.”

“Claire,” Frank breathed before crossing to her rapidly and flinging his arms around her, drawing her to his chest. “Claire, you’ve… you’ve come back,” he whispered quietly.

His voice might have been weak but his arms about her were strong. She closed her eyes and stood stiff within his embrace.

“Frank,” she muttered, unable to think of anything more to say and unwilling to raise her arms to return his gesture.

“The boy is doing well too,” the doctor chimed in, clearly unaware of the larger situation.

“Boy? What boy?” Frank asked pulling back.

“Fergus. His name is Fergus,” Claire stammered.

Frank’s brow contracted in confusion and the doctor seemed to have realized that he’d surprised Frank. The nurse stepped in.

“There’s a room free just over here,” she explained, guiding Frank towards the door. Claire followed wrapping her arms over her chest and holding herself. “We dinna want to wake the lad and the two of ye ought to have some privacy.” She glanced over her shoulder at the doctor. “The pot of tea will be ready shortly and I’ll see if I can rustle up something more to go with it.”

She shot a sympathetic look to Claire before pulling the door closed behind her.

“What’s this about a boy?” Frank pressed. “Where have you been these last few years?” He tried to rub a reassuring hand on her arm but she shrugged away from him. As she turned away she wasn’t fast enough to escape the look of hurt that crossed his features. She moved to the window.

“You probably won’t believe me,” she cautioned him before raising a brow and shrugging to her reflection in the window. “I’m not sure I care,” she added quietly.

“Claire, it doesn’t matter to me where you were,” Frank insisted. She heard his footsteps approaching behind her—slow, like he was afraid to spook her. “What matters is that you’re here now and we can… we can fix this… we can figure it out—have a fresh start.” She flinched at his words and the footsteps stopped.

“The hill at Craigh na Dun… I went there that morning to see the flowers,” she murmured.

“I remember,” Frank said quietly behind her. “I should have gone with you that morning. If I’d—”

“You wouldn’t have been able to stop it,” she interrupted. “I touched the stone and… passed through time. I found myself in 1743.”

“And you couldn’t get back,” Frank filled in hesitantly.

“Not at first… and then… I didn’t want to.” Her voice was flat and honest. She couldn’t hear or see him but she knew what she would find written on Frank’s face if she turned around so she kept her attention on her reflection in the window. “I built a life there— _then—_ a good one… with a man I love.”

“If it was so good then _why_ did you bother coming back?” Frank hissed behind her. “And where does that boy come into it?”

“You believe me then? That I traveled through time?”

“It makes as much sense as you leaving me in the first place,” he said with obvious hurt in his voice, surprising her into turning. “If you could do that—willingly—I can believe just about anything.”

“I didn’t willingly go… but I did willingly stay. And coming back…” She hesitated, her right hand drifting to her lower abdomen. “It was the Rising and… Culloden… I promised my hu—Jamie—that I would. He… he died… on the battlefield… It was that or… or face execution by the English… There was no way for him to escape… but me… I could get through the stones… And apparently Fergus could too—he followed me and now… now _he’s_ the one stuck out of his time.”

Frank stood with his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Fergus?”

Claire nodded. “We found him in France. He was… picking pockets and living in the brothel where he was born. Jamie brought him home and…”

“And now you want me to take him into our home?” Frank asked with a slight edge to his voice—disbelief? disgust?

She wasn’t sure but it made her snap back. “I’m not asking you to do anything—for him or for me. I’m not looking to pick up where we left off, Frank.”

“You… you’re leaving me? Again?” Frank asked.

Claire could see the tears in his eyes and the tremor in his limbs as he struggled to remain composed.

“I’m not… I’m not going anywhere—I don’t know yet just _what_ I’ll do. But I can’t pretend like it never happened, Frank—I won’t.” Claire fought to speak through the rising lump in her throat.

“The boy. He remembers this… Jamie,” Frank said quietly.

“Yes. And Fergus is _my_ responsibility,” she insisted.

Frank nodded subtly. “Then… he’ll be welcome… in our home. He will be a part of our family. Why… why not?” he asked as he saw Claire shaking her head slowly.

“It won’t be like it was before,” she protested.

“I know that—I can… _accept_ that,” Frank tried to convince her—convince himself.

“No, Frank,” Claire persisted. “You can’t—and you shouldn’t.”

“Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?” His voice came out strangled and the tears he’d been holding back spilled over but he remained rigid in his posture, willing himself to keep as composed as possible.

“I’m saying… I don’t love you the way that I did. I don’t love you the way that I should—the way you _deserve_ ,” she clarified.

“And Fergus… he’ll be enough for you?” There was doubt in his voice, protecting Frank’s last bit of hope.

Claire took a deep breath. “I don’t have just Fergus,” she answered quietly, raising her hand to her belly once more. “I’m pregnant.” At his gasp, she dropped her gaze. “I’m carrying Jamie’s child.”

His breathing was erratic and he made noises of disappointment and frustration that caused her to wince. When she looked up again, she saw how broken he was, trembling with grief and barely contained fury.

“I’m… so sorry, Frank. I _never_ meant to hurt you like this,” she whispered.

She wanted to leave him alone without a witness but thought he deserved to be the one to leave, to walk out on her—it was the least she could do for him. So she stood and waited and after a few minutes, Frank had gotten himself under control enough to bid her a stilted farewell and leave. He left the door open in his wake and the nurse popped her head in a moment later.

“I uh… I have yer tea, ma’am and found a few chocolate biscuits to go with it,” she remarked, a tray in her hands. “I brought twa cups thinking yer… well… I suppose not.”

“Thank you,” Claire said stepping forward and taking the tray from her. “I’ll bring it back to the room for now. Fergus will enjoy the biscuits when he wakes.”

“Will he—yer husband that is—be back in the morning?” the nurse inquired gently.

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Have ye anyone ye can stay with when the doctor decides ye’re fit to be released?”

“I… There are a few people I can try reaching out to… At least… until I can find a way to get back on my feet,” Claire said. “I don’t suppose there are any nursing positions open here,” she said in a lighthearted manner that could easily be dismissed as a joke.

“Were ye a nurse during the war?” the younger woman inquired.

“Yes. I served in France near the front lines.”

“Well, we _do_ have one of our nurses getting married soon,” the other remarked with a tilt of her head. Lowering her voice she added, “I couldna help overhearing about the um… the wee bairn ye’re expecting. It shouldna be a problem for some time yet and then ye’ll be wanting to make other arrangements, no doubt. But I’ll put in a word for ye with my supervisor if ye like.”

“Would you?” Claire felt tears rolling down her face as everything hit her at once. The tray in her hands began to shake.

The nurse took it from her again and set it down on the seat Claire had occupied while waiting for Frank.

“Aye, I will. Now you get on in there and get into bed. I’ll carry this in for ye but I want ye to rest yerself proper like.”

“Thank you,” Claire managed to say as they slipped quietly into the room where Fergus slept on. “Claire… Beauchamp,” she introduced herself. “I suppose I ought to go by my maiden name again. But I’d like for you to call me Claire.”

“Nurse Donalson—but _you_ can call me Greer,” the young woman told Claire as she poured her tea. “I’ll leave this with ye now and come back for the tray later in my rounds. And ye’d best be lying in bed there asleep when I do.” She gave Claire a reassuring smile as she drifted out of the room and gingerly closed the door.

The mere presence of food in the room proved to be enough to rouse Fergus. He soon slipped from his bed and padded over to where Claire was seated in hers with the tray on the small table between the two beds. She smiled and handed him one of the biscuits and then another as he devoured the first before she could even take up her teacup once more.

“What will happen to us, Mother Claire?” he asked as he licked the crumbs from his lips.

“I’m beginning to figure things out,” she told him warmly. “We’ll be all right,” she assured him. “All three of us.”

“ _Trois_?” Fergus asked, mouth agape.

She ran her hand over her flat belly and nodded. “ _Oui. Trois_.”

Fergus dusted the crumbs from his fingers and reached out tentatively, looking to Claire and receiving encouragement before resting his hand where hers had been.

“For Milord… I promise I will protect you and his child,” Fergus vowed. “In his stead, I will do this.”

“We will take care of each other,” Claire corrected Fergus, setting her cup aside and pulling him into an embrace. “We _will_ be all right.”


	3. Chapter 3

It did not take long for Fergus to ingratiate himself with the nurses at the hospital and in many ways their attention to him reminded him of the ladies at the brothel where Milord had found him in Paris. They were gentler with him than with their other patients and hardly a shift passed without one or another of them passing him an extra helping of whatever dessert was on the menu.

Still, he kept close to Mother Claire as he adjusted to the sights, sounds, and smells of what she assured him was still Scotland but Scotland two hundred years in the future. When the floor went quiet at night and they were alone in their room, she told him about how she had come from this Scotland to the hill with the stones, falling through time to meet Milord.

“I don’t know how they work precisely,” she explained as best she could. “And I didn’t realize that you would be able to… to tagalong with me this time—though I’m glad to have you here and I know Milord would be relieved to know you’re safe,” she assured him before pausing to take a deep breath. She still did that whenever she thought or spoke about Milord though Fergus had noticed that it didn’t take her as long to recover herself and she cried less frequently than she had.

“Can we not go back there?” Fergus asked. “The battle…”

“Is already lost,” she asserted quietly. “I’m so sorry, Fergus… There’s nothing we can do but… but _live_ … and remember them. Milord… Murtagh… All of them. We’re safe here. I just need to arrange a few things and we’ll be able to leave the hospital and… settle into something. It’s a bit late in term for you this year and you’ll need time to catch up with the other boys your age, but I’d like to put you in school in the fall.”

“Schooling?” Fergus blinked with disbelief and hesitation.

“Yes, _school_. _École... Apprendre..._ I think that’s something that Milord would have wanted for you, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for him to respond—Milord hadn’t said anything about what, if anything, he intended to do about Fergus’ education.

Mother Claire ran a hand through his unruly hair. The nurses had debated cutting it ultimately refraining though Fergus was uncertain whether that decision was rooted in his objections or the nurses’ reluctance to trim such exuberant curls.

There was a knock on the door and a nurse appeared leading an older woman into the room.

“Mrs. Randall?” The woman looked to Mother Claire.

“Mrs. Graham,” she exclaimed with happy surprise. “Please, just call me Claire for now.”

“As ye wish,” Mrs. Graham nodded. “The Reverend did say he spoke with yer husband… But let’s no get into that just now. This is the lad then?” She nodded to Fergus and stepped further into the room.

Mother Claire grinned and encouraged Fergus to join her. He gladly leaned into her as he evaluated the woman before them.

“Fergus, this is Mrs. Graham. She’s housekeeper for an old friend.” He noticed the fleeting glance between the women at the mention of this friend and tucked it away for further consideration later. “Can you say hello?”

He looked to Claire for a moment before bowing his head to Mrs. Graham. “ _Bonjour, madame_.”

“Ye’re a charmer, aren’t ye,” Mrs. Graham said with a warm smile that inspired Fergus to relax. “Do ye mind if I speak with yer mam for a few minutes? I brought along a car for ye to play with—Roger heard the Reverend and Frank talking and when he heard about the lad, he wanted him to have it.”

The woman handed Fergus a small metal thing with four wheels. He recognized it from the window.

“Mother Claire and I rode in one of these,” he remarked to Mrs. Graham. “ _Évidemment_ it was much larger.”

Mrs. Graham’s smile stayed put but some of its warmth was replaced with confusion. Fergus swallowed as he realized he’d made an error. He glanced to Mother Claire who gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed him to her.

“You are absolutely right, Fergus. A much larger one. And we’ll ride in another soon—if you’re up for it,” she said patiently.

“I should like that,” he told her and turned back to Mrs. Graham who had recovered from her surprise. “I did not see so much the last time—I fell asleep and did not wake until we had arrived at _l’hopital_. The movement it was…” He turned to Claire, uncertain what to call it.

“It was a smooth ride,” she helped him out. “Now, I think the best place to play with this would be over there along the wall,” she pointed to the far side of the room. “See if you can get it to roll all the way from one side to the other on one push. Do you think you can do that?”

He tested a wheel with his finger. It didn’t take much to have it spinning. He grinned at Mother Claire and scurried across the room to give the two women the illusion of privacy, all the while keeping his ears open as he played with the toy Mrs. Graham had given him, intentionally and noisily crashing it a few times.

* * *

“Lads are all the same,” Mrs. Graham remarked as they watched Fergus send the car colliding with the leg of the bed so that it ricocheted back towards the wall. “They canna wait to smash two things together and if one breaks, well, then they’ve something to do in the fixing of it.”

Claire watched Fergus playing but Mrs. Graham’s words conjured images of the battle she knew had been fought and lost in the week since they’d passed through the stones. It wasn’t just young boys who smashed things together and when it came to fixing what was broken…

“There’re more toys for the lad—Fergus ye said his name is?” Mrs. Graham sought to clarify.

Claire nodded.

“Toys for him and clothes for the both of ye. There were donations coming in to the manse before the Reverend even had need to comment on it of a Sunday,” Mrs. Graham told her. “The story in the paper—the mention of the boy particularly—folk around here remember well enough what it was like a few years back. Times aren’t what they were before the war but they’ve improved enough for them to share what they have with those…”

“With those less fortunate?” Claire finished with a gentle smile. She didn’t want Mrs. Graham to feel she needed to censor herself. “Well, Fergus and I are grateful to everyone for what’s been donated. I hope to start working here at the hospital myself within a few weeks—once we’re settled somewhere nearby.”

Her hand slipped to her stomach. How long would she be able to keep the nursing position before the administrators let her go again or forced her into a post where her growing pregnancy wouldn’t be an issue? Would she be able to have things sorted with Frank before the baby came? She didn’t think he would fight her for what was left of her inheritance from Uncle Lamb but she didn’t feel that she knew him enough anymore to be comfortable with that assumption.

“Yer… that is… Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Graham caught herself, “he spoke with the Reverend about… about the situation between the two of ye. The Reverend was already inclined to offer for the pair of ye to stay wi’ him while ye recovered from yer… ordeal…”

“Did Frank try to talk him out of it?” Claire asked cynically.

“Oh, no, my dear. No, he thought it was a good idea,” Mrs. Graham assured her sending a stab of guilt through Claire.

Seeing Frank again—and how much he resembled Black Jack Randall—had shaken her. It didn’t help that she wanted nothing more than to take Fergus and walk back to the stones, to rejoin whatever was left of the world they’d known. But she knew that Jamie had been right to send her through for the sake of their child and for whatever reason, Fergus had been sent through with her—perhaps as a more immediate reminder of what Jamie had tasked her with. Part of her was angry with Jamie and wanted to argue the point with him once more… just a little longer… Then she realized Mrs. Graham was still talking.

“He didna say that ye’d decided anything for certain but he did say ye both needed time to wrap yer heads around what things would mean. I dinna ken whether he’s hopeful about ye or resigned. The Reverend had been encouraging him to move on since it had been so long since ye’d… Well, whatever the pair of ye decide on yer own,” Mrs. Graham shifted her focus as she saw Claire’s smile was little more than polite listening to what Frank had to say on the status of their marriage, “he didna want the Reverend to take against ye on his account out of loyalty or some such nonsense.”

 _Wouldn’t want anyone thinking that he wasn’t concerned for his faithless wife’s wellbeing,_ Claire thought before chastising herself again.

“Didna want to appear unsympathetic to ye when there’s a child involved.” Mrs. Graham turned her attention to Fergus once more. He had switched from sending the car skittering across the floor into the furniture and was instead carefully examining the details of the toy—the axels of the underbelly, the hinge that opened the boot, the chips in the paint. “It’s the lad that the Reverend is most concerned with, ye understand. Whatever it is ye’ve been through, for a child to have endured it…”

Claire nodded. “He has been through much—most of it before he came into our… _my_ care. It will be a period of adjustment for him.”

“Ye’ll be needing someone to help ye watch him if ye’re going to make a go of doing things on yer own,” Mrs. Graham agreed. “And the Reverend… he’s thinking it would help young Roger to have a playmate of sorts. He’s doing well enough but the Reverend kens his limits when it comes to the interests of children.”

Claire laughed. “I don’t know that two boys will get into any less trouble than one. From everything I’ve heard, quite the opposite is true.”

“Aye, in my experience as well. But it does wonders for them nonetheless. And ye’ll be having yer hands more than full soon enough.” Mrs. Graham’s eyes dropped to Claire’s belly where Claire realized she’d been pressing her palm to the child quietly growing in her womb. Would it be a boy? She felt the sad smile tug at her mouth as she remembered the portrait of Jamie as a toddler with his older brother and one of the dogs.

“I don’t think we would need to stay for more than a few weeks,” Claire said firmly. “As soon as things with the hospital are arranged and money matters are sorted, I’ll find a flat or a house for us.”

“But ye’ll still need someone to help wi’ the lad while ye’re away working—at least until he can start at school.”

“Yes, there’s that to arrange as well.”

“All the better for him if he kens someone on his first day,” Mrs. Graham argued eloquently. “Ye said his schooling was… interrupted?”

“He hasn’t had much in the way of formal schooling, no,” Claire confirmed. “I don’t think he’ll be able to start in the same year as the other children his age—he’ll need to catch up and acclimate to how it’s done.”

“If he and Roger get on, I’m sure the Reverend will put in a word at the school to have them keep the boys together. So—can I tell the Reverend ye’ll be staying with us?”

Claire watched Fergus. He was now standing at the window with the toy car resting on the sill as he watched the real thing drive by on the street below. He would have to go outside again sooner or later—there was still so much of the modern world for him to see. She didn’t want to overwhelm him—or herself given the three years she had missed since that morning at Craigh na Dun—but they couldn’t hide from the future forever.

“Yes. I’ll speak with the doctor about our release and then I can call you at the manse regarding the arrangements,” she said, committing to the next step forward.


	4. Chapter 4

“I have never had a room of my own before,” Fergus remarked as he wandered around the small room on the second floor of the manse. It was across the hall from Roger’s and the younger boy had wandered in after the Reverend Wakefield had shown Claire and Fergus upstairs. Claire had followed Mrs. Graham back down to help her in the kitchen with dinner insisting it was the least she could do to help. The Reverend had a sermon to work on and entrusted Roger with seeing to their new guest and making sure he got settled.

“But… ye dinna have brothers and sisters,” Roger pointed out, slightly confused. “How could ye no have a room to yerself when there was no one for ye to share it with?”

“Before Mother Claire and Milord found me, I was living in a brothel in Paris,” Fergus explained.

“A brothel?” Roger inquired moving to a small table and chair in the corner that would serve as a desk for Fergus. He climbed onto the chair and placed a small airplane he’d been carrying with him on the desk to check its propeller.

Fergus silently cursed himself for mentioning Maison Elise––Mother Claire would not have wanted him to talk about the brothel and perhaps the Reverend would not want Roger to know about such places.

“ _Oui_. It is a kind of… French boarding house… for women. The madam who ran it… she let me stay and help around the house when there was small work needing done.”

“Ah,” Roger said with a nod as though he understood completely. “And did they no send ye away during the war? My mam and gran did what they could to keep me in London when most of the children were being sent to the country. They died though and I came to live with my papa here. He’s no my real da, ye ken.”

“I do not know who my father is—or rather, who he was,” Fergus admitted, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing Roger. The bed was higher off the ground than any he’d ever been in before—his feet only skimmed the ground—but he had developed quite the inclination for twentieth century mattresses. “Nor my mother. But I have Mother Claire now.”

He thought of Milord and the longing that had become so familiar in the last week washed over him again. From what Mother Claire had said, Milord did not know that Fergus had come through the stones with her—must have assumed that he had carried through on his promise to join the men going back to Lallybroch, to carry that paper back to Mrs. Murray. If Milord learned the truth about his deception, would he be disappointed? Or would Milord be pleased that Fergus had accompanied Mother Claire and would be able to watch over her for him—her and the _bébé_ , for by now he had figured out the truth about Mother Claire’s condition. If it hadn’t been for their time in _l’hopital_ , he might have guessed sooner—he had seen a number of the ladies at Maison Elise with child during his time there; he knew the signs.

“Do ye want to go outside and play?” Roger asked.

“Play? Play how? With what?” Fergus asked, taken aback.

Roger laughed. “Anything we want. Mrs. Graham gave me a football for my last birthday.”

“A… foot… ball?” Fergus asked slowly.

Roger’s face became one of shock. “Ye’ve never played football?”

Fergus shook his head.

“Dinna worry. I’ll teach ye how,” Roger asserted, thrilled at the prospect of being able to teach the fascinating older boy something. “Come on.” He darted out of the room to retrieve the football and Fergus had little choice but to follow a few steps behind.

“Dinna run in the house, lads,” Mrs. Graham’s voice called out as they streaked through the kitchen and out the door into the yard.

Roger headed for the Reverend’s tool shed and turned the latch to let himself in. Fergus hovered by the door, peering in at all the boxes and equipment inside. He could guess at the purposes of most of the gardening tools—they were certainly more modern looking than anything he’d seen in the barns and tool sheds at Lallybroch, but a shovel is a shovel. The boxes and the contents protruding from the open tops of some of them caught the former pickpocket’s eye; the glint of light off a bottle, the sagging of one side of a box suggesting something heavy within.

“What does your father keep in those?” Fergus asked as Roger located the football and tucked it under his arm.

Roger looked. “All sorts of things. Some of them are my mam and da’s things from before the war. He doesna want to throw them away cause he says they belong to me.”

“Can we look inside them then?” Fergus took a small step forward. “You did say they are yours,” he pointed out as Roger bit his lip nervously.

Finally, the younger boy shook his head. “I want to play football.” He led the way back to the yard where he dropped the ball to the ground and began kicking it while running around.

Fergus glanced back at the boxes one last time before closing the door to the shed and running after Roger trying to claim control of the ball.

“Ye canna do that!” Roger exclaimed when Fergus managed to get hold of the ball. “Ye must use yer feet and no touch it wi’ yer hands. Why d’ye think they call it _foot_ ball?”

Fergus shrugged and dropped it to the ground again, kicking it past Roger.

“Ye’re supposed to kick it at the goal,” Roger said with exasperation as he retrieved the ball from a bush and began to direct it towards a gap between two shrubs using short kicks that made it difficult for Fergus to get the ball away from him.

“Do not touch the ball with my hands and aim for the goal,” Fergus repeated. “What is my ‘goal’ then? Is it the same as yours?”

“Aye… for now. When ye’ve got the knack we’ll play one against one and yer goal will be there instead,” Roger explained as he pointed at the far side of the yard—Fergus couldn’t discern where the gap Roger indicated lay or how it was marked. He was too concerned with getting control of the ball back.

He stuck his foot towards Roger’s and caught the younger boy hard in the shin, swinging his leg in such a way that he pulled Roger’s foot out from under him. Roger went sprawling across the grass, his arms spread in front of him and his face landing in the dirt.

Fergus couldn’t help laughing at the image as Roger pushed himself back up onto his hands and knees, dirt streaked across his face along with blood from his lip. Embarrassed and slightly mortified by the thought of what his father and Mrs. Graham would make of his dirtied state, Roger lashed out and, catching Fergus by surprise, knocked him to the ground. Fergus quieted for a startled moment but as soon as he caught his breath again, he began to laugh harder. Roger began to laugh too and soon both boys were lying on their backs, rolling back and forth with uncontrolled laughter.

“What _are_ they doing?” Claire remarked with an amused shake of the head as she peered out the kitchen window into the yard.

“It’s like watching twa pups sniffin’ each other out,” Mrs. Graham commented with a chuckle.

They had finished laying out the materials necessary for assembling shepherd’s pie but Mrs. Graham was rummaging through the cabinet to find her preferred casserole dish. Claire stood at the stove with the skillet warming to cook the minced lamb and onions but as she put the onions in the skillet, the powerful scent of them browning triggered a wave of nausea.

Claire began breathing through her open mouth and taking shallow breaths but it wasn’t helping the way she’d hoped it would—instead of just smelling the cooking onions, she felt like she could taste them too and it ultimately sent Claire running to the kitchen sink to vomit… just as it had in Paris when she was pregnant with Faith. Leaning her forearms on the edge of the sink, Claire wiped her mouth with a nearby dishrag, not caring whether it was dirty or clean.

“Are ye all right here, lass?” Mrs. Graham asked, rubbing a hand over Claire’s back.

“I will be but… I might need to step outside for a bit and get some air,” she explained. “I should have known better with the onions.” She quickly cleaned up the rest of the mess and used a glass of water from the tap to rinse out her mouth.

“Ah,” Mrs. Graham said with a nod of understanding. “Well, dinna tempt fate for the sake of being too polite. If the bairn canna abide the smell then out ye go. Mind ye, I appreciate the help but I’d rather no bear witness to that agin while working wi’ food and thinkin’ on the meal itself—though I ken well enough my figure could use a wee bit of curbing the appetite.”

She ushered Claire out into the yard and turned back to the stove to remove the onions from the heat before they could burn.

A few deep breaths of the clean air and Claire’s nausea had passed. She moved to a wicker chair and eased herself down, leaning back so she could watch Fergus and Roger playing. They’d gotten back up and had resumed kicking the ball around, laughing and hollering as they did so.

She adjusted the waist of her skirt so it didn’t cut so sharply across her abdomen. She couldn’t be more than two or three months along but already her clothes were an uncomfortable fit. Or maybe it was just because she’d become so used to wearing stays and layers of skirts and petticoats. She rested her hand on her abdomen but there wasn’t much of a detectable swell. But she was becoming more aware of the presence of the child growing within—the piece of Jamie that was left to her.

Fergus cried out, “Mother Claire! Watch, watch!”

Claire sat up straighter in the chair to signal her attention.

Fergus squared off with the ball at his feet and used his toe to get under the ball and with a quick motion send it up into the air. With the same leg he reached out to make a stab at the ball with his foot but the ball had traveled further from him than he realized and he missed, upsetting his balance and tumbling over. It was Roger’s turn to laugh at his playmate.

Claire pressed her lips together in a smile but refrained from laughing at Fergus, who had gotten to his feet and retrieved the ball to try again.

She had never seen him play like this before. He’d gotten into mischief enough at Lallybroch after their return from France and before Charles’ letter came, but it had never been so carefree. He had still been getting a feel for his place then; there was Rabbie McNab who was about his own age and already a stable hand, too busy with work to spend much time playing and young Jamie had been so much younger than Fergus that to play with the younger boy was less fun for Fergus and more of a chore.

Fergus had grown up so much during the Jacobite campaigns. He’d seen things he never should have seen, done things no boy his age should ever be required to do.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late for him to have a childhood, though. Perhaps here and now what little innocence he had left might be preserved.

The ball came flying in Claire’s general direction with the boys following closely after it. Claire spotted the blood smeared with the dirt on Roger’s face.

“Come here Roger. Let me take a look at that, will you?” she encouraged him, moving from her seat to crouch beside him and pull out her handkerchief. She wiped at the mess a little but it had mostly dried on and she had no water at hand. A perfunctory examination suggested that he’d bitten his lip but the bleeding appeared to have stopped. It was a little swollen and could do with some ice, however.

“Let’s head inside so I can clean this properly,” she suggested with that maternal tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Fergus and Roger exchanged exasperated looks before trudging back to the house. Claire followed so that they might not see her amusement.

Yes, it was good for Fergus to be here and looked like it would prove beneficial to Roger too.

“What have ye done to yer clothes?” Claire heard Reverend Wakefield exclaim as the boys wiped their feet on the mat by the door. “If ye were goin’ to play outside, why did ye no change to something more suitable first?” the scolding continued.

“I’ll clean him up,” Claire explained to Reverend Wakefield. “He was just educating Fergus as to the finer points of football.”

“Och, weel,” Reverend Wakefield nodded, mollified. “Makin’ sure Fergus here kens what he’ll need for school in the fall, eh? Right enough. Mind Mrs. Ran… Mistress Beauchamp then. I’ll be in my study wrestling with Sunday’s sermon.”

After Reverend Wakefield had left and Claire shepherded the boys towards the washroom, Fergus whispered to Roger, “Why would it matter what you are wearing for clothes outside?”


	5. Chapter 5

“Care to take a look?” Dr. Chisholm asked as he peered into the patient’s open abdominal cavity on the operating table. Though much of his face was concealed by his gown and mask, Claire could still see the telltale raise of his eyebrows and the smiling crinkle at the outer edges.

“Thank you, doctor,” she said with an enthusiastic smile of her own. “I’d like that very much.”

Another of the surgical nurses took over preparing the silk sutures Dr. Chisholm would need for closing while Claire stepped up alongside him and peeked at the condition of the patient’s internal organs for herself, running through the common and technical names for each of them in her head. Dr. Chisholm spoke quickly as he explained to her what he was looking at—the inflamed appendix—and the various threats it posed to the patient left untreated, unsuccessfully treated, in the event of a post-op infection. Claire listened intently, nodding even as she longed to stretch and twist to relieve the growing ache in her lower back and through her shoulders—she appreciated Dr. Chisholm’s efforts to teach her what he could informally.

Before Dr. Yates—the anesthesiologist—could clear his throat, Dr. Chisholm concluded his little lesson, thanking Claire for her attention and indulgence.

“It always helps me to run through common procedure like this from time to time,” he said by way of explanation. “Keep the mind sharp and the digits obedient.” He wiggled his glove covered fingers in such a way that they cracked. “Pickups,” he requested, extending his hand to Claire who had returned to her place at the instrument tray. She passed him the tools as he called for them and the operating room settled down once more into the busy rhythm of a relatively common appendectomy.

Claire’s integration into the nursing staff at the hospital in Inverness had been bumpy at first. The story of her mysterious disappearance, sudden reappearance with Fergus in tow, and _divorce_ from Frank had surrounded her in a cloud of notoriety that plenty were eager to observe but reluctant to approach too closely for fear of being somehow contaminated by it. Greer Donalson had been a good friend to her and helped her make a few friends but as soon as Claire’s pregnancy began to show itself her skills became less important than the impression she might give off to the hospital’s patients. It was Nurse Donalson again who devised a solution—promote Claire to the surgical nursing staff where patients were unconscious and could make few objections to a nurse who was both unwed and pregnant; several of the surgeons on staff had objections of their own, but Dr. Chisholm saw more than just Claire’s skill—he saw her aptitude and potential.

When he first suggested she should apply to medical school she laughed in his face.

“Ye dinna think ye could do it?” he asked, surprised that the confident and competent nurse appeared as backward in her thinking as most people he knew.

“The work it takes to become a doctor? I believe I could do that… _if_ it were the only concern,” she emphasized, her hand cupping the slight curve of her belly in illustration. “But there’s the financial cost of the courses as well as the fact that it takes time away from being able to work—which means I have no income to help with my living expenses. Then there’s my son to consider—he’s old enough to be left to his own devices for the most part but adjusting to life here is… He needs me to be there for him when I am home. Not to mention the fact that I’ll have a newborn to worry about in a few months time.”

“Well,” Dr. Chisholm said, his face red with embarrassment for having overlooked Claire’s obvious and crucial concerns, “whether ye can work it now or not, I think ye oughtn’t to dismiss the idea altogether. Yer circumstances at present… well, they werena always just so, surely.”

Claire shrugged and nodded—her circumstances, it seemed, were never as reliable as she would like.

“So then, who’s to say they may no change again? Ye may find yerself with just such an opportunity so ye ought to do what ye can, where ye can to prepare for it, no?”

“And what do you have in mind?” she’d asked, a flicker of excitement she hadn’t felt in too long catching on a bit of kindling.

So Dr. Chisholm had requested she be his primary surgical nurse; she participated in almost all of his surgeries and he was able to review material with her and question her on it in a myriad of informal ways. He even gave her his old textbooks for her to study when she found time for herself. “They’re a bit outdated at this point,” he told her, glancing at the publication details on the first page. “I’ve ordered a new set for myself for reference and would otherwise throw them in the bin but they’re no so outdated as to be obsolete.”

“Thank you,” Claire said, running her fingers over the well-worn spines.

She studied them at night—only for an hour after Fergus went to bed. She told herself it would help make her a more effective nurse but didn’t need any further motivation or excuse than the simple desire for knowledge. She knew she would have to be daft to think that she might ever have an opportunity to apply and attend medical school so unless Dr. Chisholm was mad enough to risk letting her attempt any part of a procedure herself, her knowledge would remain theoretical rather than practical, but the learning of it left her satisfied in a way that little else did.

Dr. Chisholm completed the appendectomy on schedule and the patient was wheeled to recovery while Claire and her colleagues cleaned up and made their necessary notes on the procedure. A quick glance at the clock showed Claire that her shift was over and it was time she caught the bus that would take her to the manse to retrieve Fergus.

Mrs. Graham had helped her find and secure a flat that was a convenient distance from both the hospital and the school that Fergus would attend in just a few weeks’ time. Until then, Mrs. Graham had volunteered to watch him while Claire was at work.

“It’s a blessing to have him here and keeping Roger entertained,” Mrs. Graham had insisted when Claire expressed hesitation. “Allows me more time for my chores about the house and gives the Reverend an opportunity to compose his sermons uninterrupted—though he’s apt to go looking for the distraction from time to time.”

Claire was pleased to see how well Fergus and Roger got on; it would help for Fergus to have a friend once he started school. Her attempts to educate Fergus at home so that he wouldn’t be so far behind the modern curriculum proved to be only moderately successful. He would be the odd man out already because of his accent and age; she didn’t want him to suffer too much for his previous lack of education.

There was an unfamiliar vehicle in the drive when she arrived at the manse. She puzzled over who the Reverend’s visitor might be as she waited for Mrs. Graham to answer the door.

“Please tell me ye havena walked all the way from the bus,” Mrs. Graham scolded Claire as she held the door open and ushered her through to the kitchen. “Ye’ll be wearing yerself out more’n ye ought in yer condition.”

“I spent several hours sitting in on an appendectomy this afternoon and I do mean sitting,” she informed Mrs. Graham. “Dr. Chisholm insists I have a stool by the instrument cart so that I don’t overexert myself—a bit of movement like a good walk was precisely what I needed after that.” Claire took the seat Mrs. Graham pulled out for her at the table. While her pregnant belly was noticeable it hadn’t yet reached a size as to be obtrusive—only mildly inconvenient. She rested a hand at the top of the swell where the child inside had started kicking her again, eager to be on the move once more, apparently.

“Aye, well,” Mrs. Graham grumbled as she moved about the kitchen to fix herself and Claire a cup of tea. “I suppose where ye’re working at the hospital ye’re in as good a place as any should anything—God forbid—happen that’s of concern for the bairn.”

After setting the tea things out on the table for Claire to serve herself, Mrs. Graham began arranging a second service on a tray to take in to the Reverend and his guest.

“Roger and Fergus are out in the garden just now. If ye’d like to call them while I take this in for the men, you and I can have a bit of a chat while the lads take their time coming in and washing up,” Mrs. Graham suggested.

Claire nodded and began the process of rising from her seat once more. She could hear Mrs. Graham through the hallways as she pushed her way into the Reverend’s library to deliver the tea tray; she heard the welcome exclamations from the Reverend and Frank as well.

The kicking that had been subsiding resumed with vigor as the adrenaline flooding her system reached her womb and its occupant.

Instead of turning towards the door to call Fergus and Roger inside, she found herself glancing around the kitchen, spotting a half-finished jar of preserves and grabbing it before starting down the hall to the library. An encounter with Frank now that their divorce was finalized would inevitably be awkward but it was better to get it over with than to risk Frank and Fergus meeting. She was fairly certain Frank would bumble his way through such a meeting politely enough but she feared what seeing Frank—whose resemblance to that distant relation of his, Black Jack Randall, remained striking in its strength—would do to Fergus.

She tapped at the door before peeking inside and entering, leading with the jar of preserves.

“I think you forgot these—oh,” she interrupted herself as Frank’s eye fell on her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

The Reverend and Mrs. Graham exchanged glances before Frank invited her into the library.

“Thank you, Claire,” he said, his eyes drifting down to take in her expanded form. He blinked slowly as he struggled to overcome his surprise at seeing her. “You look…”

“I know,” Claire said, rubbing a hand perfunctorily over her belly and adjusting her posture to minimize the prominence of her pregnancy. “Soon it’ll be the three of us.”

Frank’s brow furrowed and Claire turned red.

“I’m afraid I am too tired to stay for a cup of tea after all,” she apologized to Mrs. Graham. “Shall I send Roger inside while I fetch Fergus or will he be allowed to remain outdoors?”

It was Frank’s turn to go red.

“Aye, if he wishes,” Mrs. Graham nodded. “I’ll be through to the kitchen in a minute and can call ye a cab so ye’ll no have to walk—or if ye think ye can handle a few minutes I can get Roger settled and drive ye home myself.”

“Oh, ye’re no meaning to walk at all, Mrs. Beauchamp,” the Reverend slipped, his eyes darting to Frank and back to Claire—she had begun using her maiden name as soon as she left the hospital.

“Nonsense,” Claire insisted with a dismissive wave of the hand. She was already half out the door again, eager to escape. “The walk will tire Fergus and that is worth every step. Thank you again for watching him, Mrs. Graham. You’ll have to send Roger to stay over some night soon to give yourselves a break—before the term starts.” She finished slipping away before anything else could be said and hurried along to the garden out back.

Fergus could immediately tell that something was amiss from the way that Claire came all the way out into the yard to fetch him.

“Is everything all right, Mother Claire?” he asked as Claire led him around the outside of the house rather than through it. “ _Le bébé_ is not causing you discomfort?”

“The baby is fine,” Claire insisted—though the sudden movements and continued strain of her nerves had the small body protesting and making its presence felt.

“Is it Mr. Frank?” Fergus asked.

Claire stopped and looked at him concerned. “Did you see him at all? Did he say anything to you?”

“ _Non_. Roger told me the man was expected by the Reverend,” Fergus informed her and some of the tightness in Claire’s chest eased. “You are not wanting to see him again if it can be avoided?”

“That’s one reason for leaving just now,” Claire agreed, resuming her pace as they rounded the corner of the house and began crossing the front yard. Claire felt they were being watched from the windows of the library, which overlooked the drive; she willed herself not to turn around and look.

“Roger also said the man’s name was Randall,” Fergus added. “This man… he is _un descendant_ of…”

Claire stopped again and turned full on Fergus. “Not directly.”

“But he is the man you were married to before Milord.”

“Yes.” Claire peered into Fergus’ face. Some of the youthful roundness of his cheeks was beginning to fade and the improvement in his nutrition and overall standard of living appeared to have spurred a growth spurt. He had already changed so much since their arrival in the twentieth century and yet it was always easier to keep track of the physical alterations. If his understanding of the intervening history and overall education were still shaky, there were aspects underlying his travel through time—and more specifically, _Claire’s_ experiences—that were constantly surprising her.

“It isn’t simply that he is my former husband,” Claire struggled to explain. “He is a good man—very different from Captain Randall.”

“But you do not want him to meet me?”

“It’s for your sake,” she insisted, afraid Fergus might feel herself ashamed of him in some way. “He is a very different man when it comes to his character… but _physically_ he does resemble…”

Fergus paled and she succumbed to the instinctive need to comfort him. His arms grew surer around her back until he took a step back to lay a hand on her belly—the baby had given him a particularly forceful kick.

“ _Dors petit enfant_ ,” Fergus intoned, bringing a smile to Claire’s lips.

She glanced back at the manse, the feeling of Frank’s eyes on the pair of them too great to be ignored. He stood at the window but the glass panes were too old and dirty for her to make out his expression from such a distance.

“We ought to get going,” she told him. “I want to go through a bit more of your maths after dinner.”

Fergus slipped his hand into hers and they continued on their way home.


	6. Chapter 6

Fergus pulled the blankets up around his ears.

“I am not well, Mother Claire,” he pled, drawing his knees up towards his stomach. “I will be sick if I go out of be.”

Claire lowered herself onto the mattress beside him, grimacing as the springs creaked under her weight. She put a hand to his forehead and frowned.

“Sit up,” she told him. Encouraged, he did so and lifted his head high while she felt along his throat. “Mmmhmm,” she murmured. She took his wrist and felt for his pulst. “Interesting…”

Fergus’ eyes went wide.

“You most certainly have come down with a serious case––very serious,” she told him taking his hands in hers.

“A _serious_ case?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“A _very_ serious case of nerves,” she nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, the only cure is to face the day and see it through. To the best of my knowledge, everyone feels nervous on their first day of school.” She rose and pulled the blankets back to the foot of the bed, exposing Fergus’ pale legs.

He sighed and climbed out of bed.

“What do you mean, ‘to the best of your knowledge’?” he asked as he began to dress.

Clare set about straightening the bed as best she could maneuvering around her over-large belly––she was due sometime in the next two months.

“I didn’t have much in the way of formal schooling myself,” she told Fergus. Adjusting the pillows she added, “My uncle tried dropping me off at a boarding school when I was five or six but that didn’t last very long. So he took me with him on his expeditions for work and I learned what I could on my own and with him tutoring me.”

“If you did not go to school,” Fergus objected, pulling a sweater on over his head, “why must I? You will be home with _le bébé_ soon. Can you not teach me then?”

Claire smiled at him as she rubbed her belly. “I’ll be a bit busy with the baby,” she pointed out. “Besides, I can’t teach you everything you’ll need to learn.:

“Milord did not attend such schools.”

“Milord went to _université_. Are you worried about the other students?” She leaned against the table Fergus would use as a desk as she watched him tie his shoes. Her crossed arms rested atop the swell of her belly.

Fergus’ neck went pink.

“You’ll have Roger in your class,” she reminded him. “He’ll introduce you to everyone.”

“I am older than him and the others. _And_ he already knows more than I do. They will laugh and they will think me…” He couldn’t find the word he wanted and instead of reverting to the French, as he was wont to do, he groaned loudly and flopped onto the bed. He started as the springs caused the mattress to bounce rather than give way––another reminder he would never feel entirely comfortable in this strange future time.

Claire sighed and sat beside him once more. She reached over and brushed one of his dark curls from his forehead.

“You’ve been doing really well here in this time,” she remarked.

“I had more…” he faltered again. “I was valuable to milord without schooling. To go back now it… it is… lowering.”

“Milord would not have seen it as such and neither will anyone here,” she insisted. “You will find ways to make friends and you will find a place for yourself––I promise––but you have to go to school and try first. You deserve to get to be a real child for a change––to not bear the weight of the responsibilities you had before. Growing up is not…”

She trailed off as Fergus sighed again. She didn’t need to remind him of the horrors the world held; he’d seen many of them first-hand before she’d even met him. What he needed was a mother.

She slipped a hand behind his back and did her best to raise him up.

“You’re going to be late and I want you to have a decent breakfast before I walk you to school,” she told him. “Any and all further griping must wait until the end of the day when you have something new to gripe about.”

Fergus allowed himself to be led from his room.

* * *

 The teacher assigned Fergus a seat with Roger near the front of the class. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he took his seat and slumped down. He was taller than everyone by several inches, which immediately signalled to his classmates that he was older than them. They were undecided as to whether this rendered him deserving of their ridicule or their adulation. That he was already friends with the Reverend Wakefield’s nephew did nothing to help them decide.

The teacher required Fergus to stand in front of everyone in order to introduce himself. His accent sent a fresh wave of whispers through the group.

“Where’re ye from then?” One of the other boys called out before the teacher could ask Fergus to return to his seat.

“Paris, originally,” he responded quietly.

“A Frenchie? How come ye came to Scotland? Why aren’t ye at a French orphanage?”

“That’s enough Rabbie,” the teacher interjected. “You’ll be able to get to know Fergus better at the break but for now ye need to put yer eyes forward and copy the assignment from the board. We’ll be reviewing some simple maths today to be sure what ye learnt last term is still kickin’ around in yer heids somewhere.”

Fergus breathed deeper as he picked up his pencil and began painstakingly copying the figures down––he had until break to get his bearings before the onslaught would begin.

* * *

“If ye’re French why’re ye called Fergus?”

“It is the adoptive name that mil––that my… that was given to me.”

“Where do ye live?”

“Here in Inverness with Mother Claire.”

“He meant what street.”

“Oh. I do not know. We have only lived there for some weeks.”

But ye’ve been in Inverness since spring. I remember my mam talking of how the story was in the paper. Yer mam’s the one the fairies took a few years back. Have ye met the fairies yerself?”

“The dinna have fairies in France, ye dolt; they have _frogs_.”

“They can have both, ye daft––”

“Rabbie!”

“Ye daft… dolt.”

“But they dinna have selkies. My da says selkies are only in Scotland––selkies and waterhorses.”

“Have ye ever ate a frog?”

“No… but I did slip one into a man’s pocket once. He did not notice for two streets and then when he went to get into his carria––his _car_ ––it jumped out and onto a woman walking by. You would have laughed to see the way she screamed and danced to get him off.”

“Ye couldna get away wi’ a thing like that.”

“ _Oui_. I certainly did. My fingers move so fast and with gentleness. No one knows when I have passed.”

“Even if _you_ could, a frog wouldna stay still so long.”

“Maybe it’s cause he’s French. Maybe they’ve got a special way wi’ frogs.”

* * *

The students filed back into the classroom after their midday break. The boys in particular were unexpectedly quiet though they exchanged looks that might have given the instructor pause were it not the first day back.

Taking a deep breath the teacher waited for the children to be seated before asking them to get out their books so they could take turns reading aloud in front of the class. It was his habit to walk up and down the aisles of students as they read to be sure that each of them was following along and that none were misbehaving.

The new student in the class––Fergus… Beesom? No, it was Beauchamp––spoke slowly and stumbled over the words.

The teacher crossed to stand beside Fergus and help him to sound out the words. From what he’d heard from the headmaster, the boy’s time in France during and after the war had limited his schooling. Having served himself in France before being transferred to the German front later in the war, there were plenty of French children whose names, faces, and fates were burned into his memory. He hoped having Fergus in his class would help him lay some personal ghosts to rest.

“Ye ken the letters sound a bit different when ye say them in English,” he told the boy who looked up at him with large round eyes. “Now try again from the start of the sentence. ‘ _The quick brown_ …”

Fergus nodded and looked back down at the book pressing the pages down with his forearm to keep it open, the line of his arm serving to underscore the line of text where his focus lay.

“Verra good, Mr. Beauchamp. Now why don’t ye translate that to the French for yer classmates.”

Fergus glanced around to the other students in the class but they appeared just as confused as he was.

“Since ye’re in a position to be learning English, it only seems fair that the rest of us might learn a bit of French,” the teacher explained as he walked back to the front of the to lean against his desk. “Perhaps they’ll appreciate better how challenging it is to learn a second language.”

“But my grandda taught me Gáidhlig,” Rabbie objected. “I already ken two languages.”

“Then it’ll do ye no harm to learn a third.”

A girl in the front row raised her hand but began asking her question before he could call on her.

“Aren’t we going to learn French in a few years’ time, sir?”

“Traditionally ye do begin lessons in foreign tongues a bit later but ye may be happy later to have had an earlier start. Dinna fash that ye’ll be tested on it. I just want ye to have it about ye and for ye to see that ye can learn from one another too; no just from me.”

He noticed the eyes of the class were focused on the same point but it wasn’t quite him; they appeared to be looking to his left and he felt a tug at the side of his suit jacket like that of a small child trying to get his attention. He frowned before looking down to the empty space beside him.

There was no one there; all the students remained in their seats.

He felt a second tug but it wasn’t from someone pulling on his jacket from the outside; it was coming from inside his pocket. He wasn’t in the habit of putting anything but his hands into his pockets. It was surprising he hadn’t noticed the extra weight immediately and when he reached in and his fingers encountered the damp and gritty sliminess of a muddy frog, his surprise grew.

The creature struggled to both free itself from the confines of his pocket and escape from his grasp as he sought to pull it out. It would take forever to get the mud out of the lining of his pocket.

Wetness soaked into the fabric and he groaned. The frog finally stopped fighting long enough for him to pull it free. It finished relieving itself on the floor at the front of the classroom causing two girls in the front row to scream while most of the rest of the class laughed.

The teacher set his teeth and carried the frog out of the room and out of the building. He had removed his suit jacket by the time he came back inside. Though a small wet patch had soaked through to his shirt beneath, it wasn’t as noticeable.

He found the Reverend Wakefield’s adopted son helping the boy Fergus to clean up the mess at the front of the room. Rabbie came running over with another damp towel from the washroom. One of the girls was copying dictation from Fergus onto the blank blackboard behind the teacher’s desk and the rest of the class was trying to sound out the words of the sentence written in French.

“There you are, _monsieur_ ,” Fergus said when the class had quieted and the mess sufficiently cleared. “Perhaps _la grenouille_ was interested in the lesson.” He smiled innocently and returned to his seat next to Roger.

The entire class waited quietly for the teacher’s reaction.

* * *

“How was your first day?” Claire asked while she and Fergus waved to Mrs. Graham as she pulled away from the curb. “Was it as terrible as you expected it to be?”

Fergus shook his head and began babbling about frogs and the other boys in his class. He slipped in and out of French, the English taking too long for him to wrap his tongue around to satisfy the speed of his mind.

“Slow down,” Claire implored with a laugh as she began gathering food from the cabinet and refrigerator to prepare their dinner. “Are you saying you slipped a _frog_ into your teacher’s pocket?”

Fergus flushed, briefly ashamed, but then he shrugged. “You told me I would find a way to make friends with the other boys. That was the way I saw.”

“Well, it sounds like it proved effective,” Claire admitted. “So long as you promise me you won’t do it again…”

“I promise, Mother Claire,” Fergus assured her solemnly with a hand over his heart.

It wouldn’t take long to teach the other boys a few of the tricks and techniques necessary for one of them to take over next time.


	7. Chapter 7

Fergus and Roger emerged from the confines of the school into a cool and overcast afternoon in late November ready to hurry back to the manse and play. 

It had been two weeks since the hospital had informed Claire that she could no longer come in to perform even the remedial tasks of filing paperwork; she would be welcomed back gladly in three to six months time if she could find the means to do so after having had her baby. Claire––in order to keep herself from going mad on her own all day––had taken to visiting with Mrs. Graham at the manse while the housekeeper performed her daily duties; she had even sat in with Reverend Wakefield to serve as an audience while he worked through some difficult passages in his weekly sermons. The highlight of her day was when Mrs. Graham drove them to the school to pick up the boys and she listened to the two of them chattering away in the back seat on the drive back. 

“D’ye mind if we do somethin’  _ other _ than football today?” Roger asked with a slight whine in his voice. “Mrs. Graham willna forgive me if I muddy another pair of trousers. She says she isna a machine and canna keep up wi’ the laundry I make for her.”

“What can we do that will  _ not _ make laundry for her, though?” Fergus pointed out. “At least we know she is familiar with the stains from football. Would it not make  _ more _ work for her if we play at something else and create  _ new _ stains she must toil with?”

Roger didn’t think so but the air of pious certainty with which Fergus spoke made him smile. It was a moment later he realized that Fergus had abruptly stopped walking and fallen behind. There was something between panic and excitement on his friend’s face when Roger turned to call at Fergus to hurry and catch up.

Mrs. Graham stood beside the car but there was no Claire in the front seat next to her. 

“The bairn?” Roger asked, turning to Fergus who rushed forward just as suddenly as he’d stopped moments before. 

“Mother Claire––she is having  _ le bébé, non _ ? You must take me to see her at once,” he demanded of Mrs. Graham breathlessly.

“Aye,” Mrs. Graham confirmed with a smile. “Her pains started about midday so I drove her to hospital and she said ye’re to stay wi’ Roger and Reverend Wakefield at the manse until she calls to say the bairn’s here.”

Fergus was already shaking his head. “ _ Non _ , I must go to be with her now. She must not be alone through this––it is not what Milord would want for her.”

Mrs. Graham frowned at him. “I’m under firm orders that ye’re to wait for word from the hospital,” she assured him. “Besides,” her hand went to her hips, “there’s naught for ye to  _ do _ if ye were there aside from sit and wait and get yerself underfoot. It’ll be a long while yet,” she insisted, moving to herd the boys to the car. “Best have a bit of a play, put some food in yer belly, and see if ye can sleep a bit. Lord knows ye’ll no have much o’ that once the bairn comes home wi’ ye.”

Fergus could tell that he wasn’t going to make any progress with Mrs. Graham by arguing and she was right––it would be a while before the baby arrived; there was time.

But even Roger noticed that Fergus was more than just distracted in the car. 

“Do ye feel all right?” he whispered. “Ye look like ye might be sick. Didna think ye had trouble in cars.”

Fergus sighed as he continued staring out the window. “I will be fine.” 

In truth, his stomach was twisting in on itself. A guilt he had struggled with––and thought for two years he had conquered––was rolling through his gut. If it had not been for him––for what he’d fallen into with that horrible English officer––neither he nor Mother Claire would be in Inverness. Milord would never have challenged the officer to that duel and Mother Claire would not have lost the child she carried; Milord would not have been banished from France and they all might well have stayed there for some years. They would not have gotten involved with that disastrous war and Milord would be with Mother Claire now to see a second  _ living _ child born. It didn’t matter what Mother Claire or Milord said about the officer being to blame for what happened to him or that Mother Claire would almost certainly have lost the child regardless of Milord fighting that duel, Fergus could never entirely banish the guilt he carried; he could only compress it small enough that the weight of it was bearable… until moments like this.

She had been alone at L’Hopital des Anges before, but Fergus would make sure she was not alone through her ordeal this time; he owed it to Milord. 

Mrs. Graham exchanged more than a few raised eyebrows with Reverend Wakefield after arriving back at home with the boys. Even Roger’s invitation to play football wasn’t enough to draw Fergus outdoors. Instead he sat at the kitchen table and hurried through his assignments, finishing in time for supper and then announcing he was going to go to bed despite the relatively early hour. 

“It is the same with all things that we wait for,” he explained when Mrs. Graham expressed her doubts. “Time passes more quickly when you are in sleep.”

“If ye dinna think yer excitement will keep ye awake…” Reverend Wakefield said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Fergus brushed the concern off with a smile. “I can sleep anywhere,  _ je vous promets _ .”

Mrs. Graham encouraged Roger to let Fergus be for a while. “It’s an odd place he’s in just now wi’ the new bairn coming. Ye need to give him the room to come to terms with what it means for him wi’ Mrs. Beauchamp.” 

Though Roger appeared resigned if not convinced by––or completely comprehending––what Mrs. Graham said, he was soon thoroughly distracted by his adoptive father’s invitation to play at checkers, eventually beating him three games out of four.

“We’ll make it best out of seven,” Reverend Wakefield declared as Roger left the room to use the bathroom.

He opted for the bathroom upstairs, figuring it would be easy enough to see if Fergus was still awake and might change his mind about joining them for a game or two. Roger entered the room as Fergus had one leg on either side of the window sill. 

“What are ye doing?” Roger managed to exclaim without raising his voice.

“I am going to the hospital to see Mother Claire,” Fergus stated matter-of-factly. “You will not tell Madame Graham that I am gone?” It was a question that carried the weight of Fergus’ confidence in his friend. 

“Aye. But she’ll be looking to see ye’re asleep later. I canna keep her out forever.”

“It is taken care of,” Fergus gestured to the spot on the floor where a cot had been pulled out and drawn to the foot of Roger’s bed. Fergus had arranged blankets and a few of Roger’s toys so that it looked as though Fergus lay sleeping with the blankets pulled up around his head. 

Roger frowned, unconvinced it would work but Fergus had already swung his other foot out the window prepared to make the drop to the porte-cochére at the front of the manse. 

“Wait,” Roger encouraged him. “I’ll distract them while ye go so they dinna hear ye. Count to ten before ye go for it.”

Fergus nodded as Roger rushed out of the room. 

“Ye sound like an elephant,” Mrs. Graham admonished Roger as he ran down the stairs as heavy-footed as he could manage. “Ye’ll wake Fergus if ye’re no careful.”

“Sorry,” Roger said looking suitably sheepish and guilty before settling in for the next few rounds of checkers with Reverend Wakefield. 

When it was time for him to go to bed, Roger made sure to close the window before Mrs. Graham made her final cursory visit to the room. 

* * *

Once on the porte-cochére, Fergus was still nearly ten feet from the ground but the columns supporting the structure were manageable enough. He held onto the edge near the corner till his legs found a solid grip around the column, then he shifted his weight and took a more sure grip of the column with his arms only loosening his hold enough to allow himself a slow descent to the gravel below. On solid ground again, Fergus waited only a moment for the rubbery feeling in his arms and legs to fade before making a dash for the end of the drive where he would be safely out of the light cast by the windows of the manse.

For a former pickpocket who had roamed the streets of Paris plying his trade, the streets of Inverness were easily mastered. Whenever Fergus had been in a car with either Claire or Mrs. Graham, he’d stare out the window at the streets, the shops, the people marvelling at what two hundred years could bring about but also creating his own internal map of the city––a fairly easy task when so many of the streets were so clearly marked––and the hospital had been one of the more frequent destinations of his journeys in the last several months as Mrs. Graham and Reverend Wakefield frequently brought him to Claire at the end of her shift rather than force her to pick him up at the manse. 

Finding his way in the dark of night proved easier than he’d anticipated thanks to the streetlights. The same streetlights also made keeping to the shadows both more necessary and more difficult. It wouldn’t do for someone to see him alone and try to bring him to the authorities. He kept his attention focused on the sidewalk or road ahead as often as possible while he walked and was sure to stride with purpose to give the impression he belonged on those streets at that hour. Aside from a close call as he went past a pub where a large crowd of boisterous young men emerged in a semi-drunken state, Fergus reached the hospital without incident. 

It still remained to him, however, to locate Claire within the hospital. He marched to the front desk and smiled at the nurse on duty.

“ _ Excusez-moi _ ,” he said to get her attention. “Would you be able to guide me to the expecting mothers?”

“Ye need help finding yer mam?” the nurse blinked at him. 

“ _ Oui _ . She is here to birth a child and I must be with her.”

The nurse frowned at him but pulled out a binder and turned the page. “Name?”

“ _ Beauchamp _ … My name is Fergus Beauchamp.” It was still odd hearing himself say it like that; he had never had a last name before. 

“I meant yer mam’s name.”

“Oh… Claire. She is a nurse here.”

Recognition dawned on the nurse’s face. “Nurse  _ Bee _ cham,” she said emphasizing it differently from how Fergus naturally pronounced it. “Aye, she’s here a’right. But uh… ye canna go in to see her  _ now _ ; she’s in delivery and ye’re no allowed back there.”

“But I must see her; she cannot be alone this time,” he objected, his smile and confidence fading; he was so close. Perhaps if he could just sneak behind the desk and peek in the nurse’s binder, it would tell him which room she was in. He had already gotten out of the manse and safely away; it couldn’t prove much more difficult to find his way through the hospital once he knew which room he needed to find. 

“Nurse Donalson?” 

Fergus’ head jerked up and he saw that the nurse behind the desk had the receiver of a telephone raised to her ear; now would be the perfect time to slip away but he  _ needed _ the information on that page first and she was leaning on it with her elbow. 

“Can ye come to the admissions desk? Aye, I ken what ye’re busy with, but that’s why I need ye. There’s someone here to see… How long do ye expect… Right. I’ll take care of it then.” She hung up and turned back to Fergus pressing her lips together in thought. 

“Are ye hungry, lad? I can take ye by the cafeteria for a snack on our way upstairs,” she offered. 

Fergus didn’t want to stop but if she was  _ really _ going to show him up… 

“I could enjoy a piece of bread,” he said as she came around the desk to take his hand and lead him away. 

“I just need to stop at the nurse’s station for a moment to send someone else to cover the desk,” she informed him, “then straight to the food.”

* * *

Fergus wasn’t allowed to take his bread or the apple Nurse MacGregor scrounged for him out of the cafeteria. When he tried to gobble them down quickly she admonished him and began lecturing him about the hazards of choking until he slowed down and chewed properly.

“Can we go to see her now? I dinna want her to be alone,” he repeated.

“She’s no alone,” Nurse MacGregor assured him. “She has Nurse Donalson wi’ her along wi’ the doctor. Yer mam has friends here so ye needa worry so much. Come; I’m goin’ to take ye a special way.”

The hallway was brightly lit despite it being the middle of the night and one of the walls had glass windows running along its length. 

“Can ye see?” Nurse MacGregor asked nodding to the windows.

Fergus frowned then looked in to find a row of bassinets with little signs on them. Several were empty but most contained swaddled infants sleeping or crying, straining against the blankets that restricted their movements. 

“Ah!” Nurse MacGregor exclaimed, startling Fergus. “She was right.”

“ _ Qui _ ? Right about what?”

“Nurse Donalson. She said it wouldna be much longer and she was right. That’s the bairn there.” She pointed to a bassinet decorated with pink bows at the corners.

_ Beauchamp, Brianna _ was written on the little sign at the baby’s feet. Everything about the baby was pink from her blanket and cap to her round cheeks and tiny mouth. She’d gotten one fist free of the blankets at some point and had it tucked up by her chin. 

“She seems a calm one now,” Nurse MacGregor remarked. 

But Fergus wasn’t listening. All his attention was on the slumbering bundle in the bassinet.

“Brianna,” he whispered, pressing his nose to the glass. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Can we get another chapter of The Tagalong?! Merry Christmas!

Fergus sat in his chair with his arms braced on the edge of Brianna’s bassinette and one hand hanging in enough for her to grasp his finger. Her tiny fingernails had just been cut but already seemed to have grown out enough to feel like needles when she squeezed tight. She was fighting her nap and Fergus had assured Mother Claire that he would be able to get the baby to sleep while she finished getting their home ready for their Christmas guests.

Brianna’s green velvet Christmas dress was safely concealed beneath the tartan blanket that Mrs. Graham had helped Mother Claire fashion from the arisaid she’d worn on her journey through the stones. It had faded a bit with washing but when it was tucked up close about Brianna’s chin and wisps of her bright hair fell across it Fergus would trace the pattern of the Fraser tartan and recall the way Milord had looked wearing it as he stood in the sun overlooking the fields at Lallybroch as potatoes were harvested or as he draped the length of his plaid about his head and shoulders for warmth in the rain.

In the quiet moments when Mother Claire asked him to keep an eye on Brianna as she completed a chore or if she fell asleep, exhausted in the middle of an afternoon, Fergus would lapse into French and whisper stories to Brianna; stories about Milord, about Lallybroch, about France.

“ _J'ai couru et couru et il m'a poursuivi,_ ” Fergus said quietly as Brianna’s eyes looked up at him, unfocused, and her other fist was in her mouth. “ _Bien sûr, qu'il m'a attrapé. Mais il ne m'a pas fait de mal; il m'a offert un emploi. Oui, ton père a fait ça_.” He leaned in and kissed her tiny knuckles where they clung to his finger. Her eyes were beginning to drift shut. “ _C'est la raison pour laquelle je suis ton frère… il y a plus, mais nous sauverons cette histoire pour plus tard_.”

He heard the front door shut and the boisterous welcomes of Claire to her guests then Roger’s eager footsteps came scurrying down the hallway in search of him. Before the door had even opened, Fergus was halfway across the room hushing his friend.

“Whatever you do, do not wake Bree,” Fergus hissed before glancing over his shoulder to see that she hadn’t moved. The hand that had been clutching his finger was pressed to her chubby cheek, fingers splayed while the drool-covered fist that had been in her mouth rested on the bedding next to her head leaving a damp spot underneath it. The tartan blanket rose and fell with her deep and steady breathing.

“Ye mean we’ll no get to play wi’ her?” Roger asked straining to look past Fergus to see the bairn he’d heard so much about from Mrs. Graham and from Fergus at school. He’d only seen her once at the hospital when they’d gone to pick Fergus up and a few times from a distance when Mrs. Beauchamp came to drop Fergus off to play or pick him up again.

“Trust me, you do not want to play with her when she is needing a nap,” Fergus warned leading the way out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. “When she is not in a right mood she cries and that is not fun for anyone.”

“Is she asleep then, Fergus?” Claire asked as the boys appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She and Mrs. Graham were working at the counter and the oven door was hanging open, heat and the smell of cooking meat wafting deliciously into their faces.

“ _Oui_ ,” he told her reaching for a pastie on the counter. Mrs. Graham raised her eyebrows at him and shook her head but smiled as he took a second and held it out for Roger.

“Supper should be ready in an hour or so,” Claire informed him. “Why don’t you go show Roger some of the gifts you got?”

Fergus nodded and turned to take Roger to his room.

Hearing about Christmas at school, Fergus had come home and asked Mother Claire about the holiday and how it was celebrated.

“We did not celebrate in such ways at Lallybroch but you have said many things in this time are different,” he’d speculated as he lay on his back on the floor tossing a small ball into the air and catching it. Mother Claire had been rocking in a chair with Brianna nursing at her breast.

“Yes, Christmas is one of the holidays we celebrate differently in this time,” Claire said but there was a somber tone as she said it brushing the hair down on Brianna’s small and delicate head. “It’s more like the Hogmanay celebrations we had that first year back at Lallybroch; a time you spend with family and friends. You feast and there are presents.”

“It is a time that is making you miss Milord,” he observed quietly, watching her carefully and holding the ball tightly in his fist, interrupting the rhythm of tossing and catching he’d established.

Mother Claire’s eyes remained fixed on the baby’s intent gaze and strong, suckling mouth.

“Yes and no. I miss him always,” she responded quietly then stroked Brianna’s cheek with the tip of her finger. Brianna released her hold on Mother Claire’s nipple, a dribble of breast milk leaking from the corner of her mouth and making a path down her jaw and into the deepening folds of her neck while Mother Claire eased the drained breast back into her nursing bra and shifted the still-hungry infant so she could access and feed on the other breast. “It would have meant so much to him to see the both of you doing so well and it makes me sad that he can’t be here to share this time with us.” She finally looked away from the baby and caught Fergus watching her, pushing a small smile to her face. “I told him a little about what Christmases in this time were like and I know that he would want you to enjoy it as much as you can; he wouldn’t want us to mope at a time meant to be happy.”

And she had told him then of her plan to invite Roger, Reverend Wakefield, and Mrs. Graham over for the holiday. Mrs. Graham would only be staying a short time since she had her children and grandchildren to spend some of the day with but Reverend Wakefield and Roger didn’t have obligations beyond each other and readily accepted the invitation.

“Oh,” Roger interrupted before they could leave the kitchen. “We brought ye a gift.” The younger boy pulled Fergus in a different direction seeking his adoptive father in the small living room.

Reverend Wakefield stood examining the pair of bookshelves that stood on either side of the television, squinting at Claire’s odd collection of medical and herbal texts. He turned when the boys entered the room and the lines standing between his eyes dissolved, reappearing at the corners in the form of laugh lines. “Happy Christmas to ye, Fergus. Yer mother told me ye’ve had a good mornin’,” Reverend Wakefield said cheerfully.

“Can we give Fergus his gift now, Father?” Roger asked looking up into the taller man’s face with pleading eyes.

Reverend Wakefield’s mouth turned down a bit at the edges into an expression meant to be stern but which in effect proved rather comical. “Now, I dinna see it will be a problem to give it to him now but ye lads must promise ye’ll no be usin’ it in the house; it’s strictly for playin’ out of doors.”

“Of course, Father,” Roger promised turning away from his father’s warning looks to search the room for the gift. He spotted it and ran to get it taking care to block Fergus’ view while he picked it up and then turned with a showman’s flair.

In his arms rested a brand new football with a shining red ribbon tied around its middle like a jolly belt.

“Let’s go ask yer mam if we can go outside to play wi’ it till supper’s ready,” Roger suggested.

“All right but we must play on the side of the house where Bree will not hear us and wake,” Fergus offered as a condition. Roger kept tight hold of the ball as they hastened to the kitchen to ask permission to go outside. Permission granted and warnings issued about the consequences of dirt leaving the ground and finding its way onto clothes, the boys disappeared through the door with Reverend Wakefield following in order to watch and keep them on their best behavior.

Claire and Mrs. Graham smiled as they made tea for themselves to enjoy while the food finished cooking.

“Ye seem to be managing all right on yer own wi’ the bairn,” Mrs. Graham remarked glancing around the kitchen and to the living room beyond. There was a fair bit of clutter but most of it appeared to be the result of having to move furniture in order to accommodate the small evergreen in the corner of the living room as well as the bulky trappings that come with newborns. It was a lived-in home, a place that sheltered children who were loved.

“For now,” Claire remarked with a tired sigh. “I still have time to figure something out for when it’s time to return to work at the hospital.”

“Ye do,” Mrs. Graham agreed, “so do what ye can to enjoy the day.”

“I’m trying and it helps having you here––and having Roger for Fergus to play with. It’s just… a year ago–– _two_ years ago… If you’d told me I would be here…”

“It doesna do to dwell,” Mrs. Graham interjected. Out the window they could see that the ball had been divested of its ribbon and Fergus had woven it through the belt loops on his trousers, an act that had Roger howling with laughter while Reverend Wakefield watched with a broad smile. “It’s turning to a particularly good Christmas for Roger too. He’s no had much in the way of playmates before yer Fergus came and the Reverend too hasna had family beyond the lad to celebrate with in some time.”

Brianna cried from down the hall and Claire quickly set her tea down to retrieve the baby and calm her; it was too early for her to be hungry and Claire didn’t want to have to change her shirt. She came back to the kitchen with Brianna held to her shoulder, the tartan blanket folded and tossed over her shirt for the baby to rest against.

“Someone doesn’t want to miss all the action, no matter how tired she is,” Claire remarked as Mrs. Graham approached to look the tired baby in her bright blue eyes and give her a pat on her back.

“Yer life may no be what ye’d expected or hoped two years ago,” Mrs. Graham said quietly as Brianna’s eyes closed again, her mouth hanging open. “But ye’ve got one to be lived and ones to live it with and for. Ye can mourn––and ye will… That part doesna go away. But ye’ll have joy in what ye have left of yer man in his child and though that lad out there mayna be his son by blood…”

Claire smiled and looked to see Fergus laughing with Roger, miming something undoubtedly inappropriate with their backs turned to Reverend Wakefield. Brianna was a warm solid weight clutched over her heart.

“He might not be Jamie’s by blood, but Fergus does carry a bit of Jamie with him,” Claire finished Mrs. Graham’s thought. The three of them would keep Jamie alive.

“Here,” Mrs. Graham said, pulling a small wrapped parcel out for Claire. “Perhaps ye can start some new traditions of yer own.”

It was tricky getting the wrappings undone with one hand but since Brianna’s birth Claire had found her skills in such tasks developing rapidly.

A book of classic Christmas stories, poems, and songs from Dickens to O. Henry, Hans Christian Anderson to Moore, Longfellow, Frost and Blake.

“Thank you,” Claire said quietly to Mrs. Graham. She was familiar with most of the stories in the book and had even outlined a few of them for Jamie on cold and quiet nights as they lay wrapped in the darkness and each other’s warmth. He’d been a born story-teller and enjoyed learning new ones from her. He would have loved telling their children stories at night; she could already feel the warmth of his arms around her as though he were standing behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder so he could look down at the book in her hands. Brianna stirred in her arms without waking as though she’d been brushed by something––or someone––too.

“Happy Christmas, Claire,” Mrs. Graham wished her softly.

“Happy Christmas.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fergus has mixed feelings about the prospect of Roger's birthday party

Fergus hesitated to get out of the car. He had stayed over at the manse at least half a dozen times but then it had always just been the two of them, Roger and himself. They had slept in Roger’s bedroom flipping a coin to see who would take the bed and who got the cot on the floor.

This time there would be several other boys from school and Fergus wasn’t quite sure what to make of the prospect. 

“He said we’d be camping,” Fergus explained to Claire as she eased the new car through the streets towards the manse.

Brianna gurgled in the strange basket on the seat beside Fergus. It was mostly stuffed with blankets and pillows to keep Brianna well cushioned when they went around corners. Fergus liked to drape his arm over the top to keep it in place as well and he knew Mother Claire relaxed when she looked into the mirror and saw him watching protectively over his little sister. Brianna found it great fun too pulling one of the blankets over her face and then laughing when Fergus pulled it off again. Her gummy grin brought a smile of pride to his face and he reached into the basket to tickle her cheek, setting off a riot of giggles. 

“Is there something wrong with camping?” Claire asked when they stopped to let a trio of pedestrians cross.

“Camping is for armies or if you are traveling and cannot find a place to stay,” Fergus complained. “It is not something to be done when a proper bed is near. Why would anyone  _ enjoy _ to sleep in the cold and the dirt and the mud?”

Claire was glad Fergus couldn’t see the full extent of her amusement from his seat in the back. 

“Making camp is one of the things that’s different in this time––for the most part,” she tried to explain. “For one thing, most of the children have only had beds to sleep in. Even during the war, special care was taken to get the children to safe places. The beds may have been crowded and the rooms dar, but they were usually safe and warm too.”

“So they find the dirt and such interesting because it is different?” Fergus sounded less disbelieving and more fascinated. “Like when Bree wishes to play with the red ball instead of the blue even though they are the same.”

As though to underscore her agreement, Brianna screeched and pulled hard on Fergus’ arm, demanding his attention. He gave her his hand and she promptly pulled his fingers to her mouth so she could gnaw on his knuckles.

“Yes,” Claire concurred, turning her head to check the way was clear before easing through the intersection. “It’s a novelty. And they do some fun games and things too. Probably tell ghost stories and use a telescope to look at the stars.”

“Is this why I must bring something to give to Roger? To say my thanks for being asked and so we will have the games to play?”

“The present is for Roger’s birthday. It’s how they’re celebrated in this time. Friends and family have a party and the birthday person receives gifts.”

Fergus sighed and pulled his finger from Brianna’s mouth looking carefully at the skin to see if her new teeth had finally broken through and left a mark. They hadn’t so he wiped the drool from her chin as she blew bubbles. He gave her one of the strange toys to chew on. They were hard like wood at the core but had an odd and colorful coating on top of that, some material that didn’t chip or splinter and was soft enough not to hurt Bree when she bit down hard. 

It was unlike anything he’d seen for children before but then there were many things about this time that were like that; sometimes it was more overwhelming than others and this was one of those times. 

“How did you manage, Mother Claire?” he asked. “You lived for years in a time not belonging to you. I never would have known did I not follow you here. How is it you found your way so easy?”

She laughed. “It wasn’t easy and I did have help with most of it,” she remarked.

“Milord,” Fergus nodded looking down at Brianna. It was incredible how much the chubby-cheeked babe looked like her father. His eyes shone from her face and his hair gleamed on her crown… but her laugh was all her own. 

Claire’s voice was somber as she responded, “Yes. I had Jamie. I didn’t tell him right away but he did know fairly early… And where I went backwards there’s the advantage of having some idea of what you’re going to find,” she added, moving on to the less painful side of the matter. “Even if you don’t study it specifically or know a lot you can’t help absorbing something of the past simply by living. It’s the future that leaves you blind… even then… trying to change things… I still don’t know if what we did had any impact one way or another…” 

Fergus reached forward and rested a hand on her shoulder, snapping her from her reverie. 

“You and Milord impacted me,” he assured her quietly. “And Bree. We would not be here.”

Claire smiled at Fergus in the rearview mirror and blinked back her tears before pulling to a stop and parking the car. 

“Are you ready for Roger’s birthday party?”

Fergus stared out the window at the manse. There were two or three of the boys from his class saying goodbye to their parents, eager to move on to the fun and games ahead. 

“Are all birthday parties like this?” he asked, his face scrunched with anticipatory disgust. 

“Many are… but they don’t have to be. You can have whatever kind of birthday party you…” She stopped herself and looked carefully at Fergus. “Oh, darling…” she murmured. 

“If this is what birthday parties are, I’m not sure I mind not having one,” he declared, quietly resolute. 

“You don’t know when your birthday is,” Claire stated. 

“Madame Elise sometimes said it was spring and that my disposition was sunny for that, but when I displeased her she would say it was my winter coming out.”

“March,” Claire said with some certainty, enough to draw Fergus’ attention to her. A smile crept across her face. “They say that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.”

A light lit Fergus’ face. “It was in March that Milord found me and brought me home to you.”

“Do you remember which day?”

Fergus puzzled for a moment before shrugging. 

“Near to Easter, I think, but I cannot be sure was it the 23rd or the 24th.”

“Well, pick one and we’ll make that your birthday––the day you became a Fraser. We’ve overshot March by a few weeks now, but we’ll find a way to celebrate it; just the three of us if that’s all you want.”

Fergus grinned. “I will think which day I like. But now I must do the camping.” He stuck his head between the headrests to kiss Claire’s cheek.

“Wish me luck,” he said with resignation that made Claire laugh as the car door closed behind him and she watched him head for the door with Roger’s gift tucked under his arm.

* * *

When Claire returned the next morning to retrieve Fergus, she found him in much better spirits if a little tired.

“Have you had a change of heart about camping?” she asked with an amused smile. 

“No, I still prefer a bed that is inside but I most definitely want to have a birthday party. The games were enjoyable––I was the most skilled at the game of picking up sticks and I showed everyone games for playing cards and won most of their sweets but when the Reverend and Mrs. Graham discovered this they made us stop and I had to return the candy,” Fergus rattled on as Claire negotiated the drive home. “I have decided I want my birthday to be the 24th and I want a present like the one Rabbie gave to Roger––they are shoes with  _ wheels _ on the bottoms.”

“I take it you want some of the boys from school to come,” Claire guessed with a chuckle.

“ _ Oui _ , I have already invited them.”


	10. Chapter 10

Claire was thoroughly exasperated by the time she arrived at the school and extricated an over-tired Brianna from the car. The sound of her cries echoed through the halls as Claire struggled to recall the way to Fergus’ teacher’s office.

She knew she must be headed in the right direction when she spotted Reverend Wakefield leading an ashamed-looking Roger toward her.

“Good evening, Claire,” he said when they were close enough to pause and talk. Claire bounced Brianna a bit and the baby calmed down.

“I only wish it was a good evening, Reg, but it looks like both of us have had to change our plans a bit,” she remarked, looking down at Roger who went red in the face. Actually, he appeared to have a bruise developing on his cheek. Claire prayed it wasn’t Fergus who had given it to him, though the two boys were close friends, so she doubted that was the reason she’d been summoned.

“Then perhaps it would be better if I said, ‘good luck,’” Reverend Wakefield replied.

“Thank you.” With a nod, they squeezed past each other and Claire continued to the teacher’s office.

Fergus sat in a chair in the hallway. He slouched so his feet could reach the floor, the grey wool of his sweater had rolled up several inches and the white shirt beneath was not just visible, it had come untucked from his trousers. Claire was struck by how normal he appeared—how normal she felt. Not that either of them were  _ab_ normal, precisely—though their proven traveling capabilities certainly were. It had been a little over a year since their arrival in the twentieth century and yet Fergus looked like any number of the other boys at school getting into scrapes and requiring a meeting with his new teacher.

She only wished it could have been any other day or some manner of academic offense rather than a disciplinary one that meant a call to her at the hospital and being pulled out of a surgery she was sure she would be quizzed on in her studies.

Fergus’ curly head popped up when he heard her approach with Brianna.

“Mother Claire!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in the chair. “You must speak to Mistress Lowe. She says what I told the others was inappropriate but it was only the truth. She will listen to you. And I didn’t even say any of it until we were on break, so I was not intending to be disrespectful to anyone,” Fergus babbled.

“That’ll be enough, Mr. Beauchamp,” Mistress Lowe said from the office doorway.

Claire turned to the teacher and adjusted Brianna on her hip. Brianna continued to cry.

Mistress Lowe’s mouth twitched with annoyance but she bowed her head and held the office door open for them.

Seated in Claire’s lap and turned to face Fergus, Brianna began to settle, her tears drying on her cheeks, stained red from the efforts of her fussing.

“I apologize for summoning ye to meet like this,” Mistress Lowe said as she took her seat behind her desk.

“Then you should apologize to Mr. Craigh and Dr. Chisholm as well,” Claire retorted, already brushing uncomfortably against the teacher’s patronizing attitude. Mistress Lowe looked surprised and confused. “Your initial call interrupted the surgery I was assisting with and when you insisted on holding Fergus after school rather than releasing him to Mrs. Graham’s care, It meant another interruption. I certainly hope whatever the infraction is, it’s worth half my day’s pay, the loss of a valuable learning opportunity for me, and the risks to the patient in my care.”

Mistress Lowe was taken aback for a moment and doubt flashed in her eyes. Claire knew she was laying it on thick but it was the judgement from the secretary who had called Claire at work and she explained that, no, she couldn’t come down just then because she was working and could a meeting be scheduled for another afternoon; it was the concern and guild in Mrs. Graham’s voice when she told Claire a short time later that Fergus hadn’t arrived at his usual time; it was the stubborn set of Fergus’ jaw as he stared at Mistress Lowe and waited for her accusations.

Fergus was defiant and quietly so. His expression reminded her of Jamie when Dougal tore the shirt from his back. There was a righteousness to that brand of anger. When Fergus was guilty of some mischief, he went out of his way to act innocent (usually unconvincingly). He was never baldly defiant.

“ _I_ believe it is,” Mistress Lowe finally responded. “Ye see, we had a disruption this afternoon and yer Fergus seems to be the source of what was said—something that’s sure to have many upset parents telephoning or dropping in to lodge complaints.”

“And what did Fergus allegedly say?”

“I don’t know the particulars, but my understanding is that over luncheon for several days now, he’s been telling the lads stories of an…  _explicit_  nature.” Mistress Lowe narrowed her eyes at Fergus who understood he was in trouble but failed to see why he should be ashamed.

“I only told them what _les filles_  used to tell me at  _Maison Elise_ ,” he informed Claire.

Mistress Lowe clenched her jaw and raised her eyebrows at Claire as if to say, “see?”

“Did one of the boys take offense?” Claire inquired. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you mean by an altercation…”

“One of the lads in class voiced his opposition to the science and nutrition lesson today,” Mistress Lowe explained. “Said it was in contradiction to what Fergus had had to say on the matter. The situation deteriorated quickly from there as friends of yer lad took issue with the lad mentioning Fergus by name, presumably fearing he would get into trouble and his stories would cease.”

Fergus rolled his eyes but Claire stopped him contradicting the teacher outright with a look.

“You said you don’t know all the particulars. I take it you haven’t heard Fergus tell any of these alleged tales yourself. What about the other teachers? Have any of them overheard him?” In her arms, Brianna had calmed enough to look back and forth between Claire and the teacher, her fingers in her mouth.

“No…” Mistress Lowe said, defensively. “But as I said, he shares them with the other lads expressly when our attention is elsewhere.”

“Allegedly,” Claire reiterated. “So on one has told you exactly what stories Fergus is supposed to have told?”

“One of the lads in the altercation shared one and may yet share more as he seems inclined to cooperate.”

“A child eager to get  _himself_  out of trouble?” Claire’s thick skepticism brought color to the other woman’s cheeks. “It sounds to me like children causing trouble amongst themselves—which I  _certainly_  don’t think was worth you calling my away from work or worrying my nanny.”

“Mrs. Beauchamp—” Mistress Lowe objected, raising herself straighter in the chaire.

“I’m through discussing this. I’m taking my son home,” she declared, rising.

“The lad said himself that he shared stories with the others during breaks,” Mistress Lowe continued.

“Stories about his time at the orphanage in France,” Claire said, turning on the other woman again and causing her to start. “Stories about his experiences during the war. I’m sure not all of them were happy stories—I know not all of mind from my days at the field hospital are—but to call them inappropriate… to even  _hint_  that  we ought not speak about those days… To forget them and not share them is to leave space for such things to happen again. Come along, Fergus. Let’s go home and see about our supper.”

Fergus followed Claire out of the office, keeping his expression controlled until Mistress Lowe couldn’t see his confusion. Was he in trouble or wasn’t he? What about Roger who had hit the other boy to keep him quiet and keep Fergus out of trouble.

When they reached the car and had pulled away from the school, Claire scolded Fergus.

“You cannot tell the other boys about  _Maison Elise_ ,” she said. “You can’t tell them anything about the stones or how we came here, but especially Maison Elise… It’s too dangerous. Someone might think you belong in a madhouse or that you’re trying to cause trouble.”

“Can I not tell even Roger the truth? Fergus asked with a whine. “Or Mrs. Graham? She tells stories about the fairy stones. I’m sure she would believe me.”

“It is easier to stay in practice by telling no one… If you need to talk about it, talk to me. And when I need to talk about it, I’ll talk to you too.”

Fergus sighed and leaned his forehead against the car window.

“I miss Milord,” he murmured.

“I miss him, too,” Claire agreed softly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Really love the Tagalong and would love to see Claire teaching Fergus to drive.

Brianna lurched forward in Claire’s arms as she sat next to Mrs. Graham watching Fergus with Roger and Reverend Wakefield. Claire shifted her second arm to reinforce her hold on Brianna who gurgled happily as she straightened back up with half a leaf from the nearby bush clutched in her fingers.

Fergus stood next to his bicycle carefully watching as Reverend Wakefield instructed the two boys in what to do.

Brianna shoved the leave at her eyes before screeching in her ear. Pulling Brianna further away to prevent herself going deaf and blind, Claire kept her attention on Fergus.

Roger had ridden on tricycles before and had deeply embedded knowledge of bicycles and the theory behind how to interact with them.

Fergus did not.

When one of the doctors at the hospital had remarked about the expense of buying his son a new bicycle because the boy had outgrown his old one, Claire had jumped in asking if he would sell the old one. She’d bought it from him before she realized fully what it was she was doing.

She justified it by calling it a birthday present for him—though the birthday he’d chosen for himself had been celebrated several months before. When he reminded her of the fact, she responded that he was back-owed a few birthdays’ worth of gifts. Fergus grinned and didn’t argue anymore.

The grin had faded when it came time to learn how to ride the bicycle.

He’d swung his leg over easily enough but fell before he could get both feet on the pedals. After a few more frustrating tries, Claire had suggested he try learning with Roger and Reverend Wakefield. She hoped seeing someone else struggle through mastering the skill would help.

But Roger was picking it up faster and Fergus was becoming discouraged.

Brianna had gotten the bit of leaf near enough to her mouth for drool to coat one side and as she’d fought to maneuver it into her mouth, she’d instead gotten it stuck to her cheek. Now she could see a small sliver of it stuck there but consistently missed it as she reached up to try to remove it.

Claire smiled and peeled the leaf fragment off, flicking it away rather than let Brianna chew on it. Brianna pouted at her in response but giggled when Claire bopped her on the nose before sitting her on the ground in front of Mrs. Graham.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on her and making sure she doesn’t eat any grass or insects?” Claire asked as she picked up a knitted toy cow and handed it to Brianna. One of the steer’s sagging horns went straight into her mouth.

“Aye, we’ll keep one another company,” Mrs. Graham smiled at Brianna who was looking up at Mrs. Graham over her shoulder with the toy cow dangling from her mouth.

Claire crossed to where Reverend Wakefield was helping Roger to find his balance as he cautiously lifted his feet off the ground and onto the bicycle’s pedals. Fergus stood with his bicycle leaning against his hip and one hand on the handle bar to hold it steady but he still hadn’t tried getting onto the seat.

Reverend Wakefield turned as Claire approached and gave her a subtle nod before telling Roger to pedal for all he was worth. Holding the back of Roger’s bicycle to keep him upright, Reverend Wakefield and Roger made their way down the drive leaving Claire and Fergus to themselves.

“Don’t you want to try?” she asked.

Fergus shrugged. “It’s silly child’s play. A knows he is a man when he handles his horse with skill. This is not a beast to tame so there is no real honor in mastering it.”

Claire fought the urge to snort. “You’re right. It’s not a horse. Which means it doesn’t need to be fed nor cleaned up after and doesn’t require a barn or a field to own. And whether you ride it or not, you and I both know you can handle a horse on your own.”

He looked to her and bit the inside of his cheek, still not convinced.

“I would prefer to learn to control the car,” he told her. “Then _you_ could tend to Bree in the back seat.”

She laughed. “Someday perhaps, but you’ve a way to go yet. Do you know the saying, you need to learn to crawl before you can walk? Well, you need to learn to ride a bicycle before you can drive a car. Up you go.”

Resigned at last, Fergus swung a leg over the bicycle and settled awkwardly onto the seat. Claire took hold of the handlebar on one side and the seat with her other hand, keeping Fergus steady.

“We’ll just walk to start so your legs grow accustomed to the way the pedals move, then we can go faster on the next pass,” she told him.

“Put her into a canter?”

“With bicycles it’s called switching gears but let’s not put the cart before the horse,” she joked.

Fergus laughed and relaxed a bit more.

“Ready… and… pedal,” she said, pushing the bicycle forward with all her might.

Each turn of the pedals required less effort from Claire to push it forward as Fergus’ coordination caught up with him.

Within three passes, Fergus found his balance. A few more and Claire was finding it difficult to keep up. Before they left to take hungry and whiny Brianna home for dinner and bed, Fergus had ridden the entire length of the drive on his own and had only fallen three times the entire day.

“You’ll need to practice in order to improve,” Claire reminded him that night. “But it won’t be long before you’ll be able to ride your bicycle all the way across town. _With_ supervision,” she amended.

“Will I be able to ride it across Scotland?” he challenged.

“You can ride bicycles almost anywhere. And as with horses, there are races where people ride their bicycles. There’s a rather long one in France,” she told him.

His eyes went wide for a moment, then he looked away briefly, thinking. “I think someday I would like to see it again—to see what it has become. And I should like for Bree to see it.”

“I should like that too,” Claire agreed.


End file.
